


end of sanctuary

by aquilaofarkham



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Horror, Character Study, Disturbing Themes, Dreams, Friends to Lovers, Gore, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Metaphors, Multi, OT3, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Horror, Slow Build, Suggestive Themes, Surreal, Trauma, abstract concepts as metaphors for trauma, mildly horny body horror but it's ok bc it's symbolic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:41:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 60,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24709258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquilaofarkham/pseuds/aquilaofarkham
Summary: With the help of psychological magic, Trevor and Sypha enter into Alucard's dream world in order to help him confront his trauma, guilt, and other personal demons while also reevaluating their own relationship to him.
Relationships: Alucard | Adrian Tepes | Arikado Genya/Sypha Belnades, Alucard | Adrian Tepes | Arikado Genya/Trevor Belmont, Alucard | Adrian Tepes | Arikado Genya/Trevor Belmont/Sypha Belnades, Trevor Belmont/Sypha Belnades
Comments: 87
Kudos: 189





	1. i need a miracle and not someone's charity

**Author's Note:**

> a collaboration between myself and the always wonderful [kabumek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kabumek/) <3
> 
> this fic is HEAVILY inspired by my other fave series silent hill and the title of chapter one comes from [ this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_LvEj01NBmQ&list=PLJunIPaN4x1QEqOB0kDAzcO1ndInG9ObF&index=5) from silent hill 3.
> 
> you can also find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/belllmonts/) and [tumblr](https://aquilaofarkham.tumblr.com/)

The candelabras are made from human arms. Nails chipped, fingers discoloured and pale as they keep their iron grip on brass made to look like gold. Dim candlelight flickers against darkness, dripping hot wax along the skin, burning it. They hold on without wavering, do their duty and light the way for their passenger in the corridor.

Yet with every slow step forward, closer along the individual halos of fire, the candles move away from him before they’re snuffed out by an unseen and unfelt wind. There’s nothing behind him, he is alone; so he believes. So would anyone believe, surrounded by the dark and the quiet.

He walks on, further and further, paying no attention to each broken shard of glass littering the hard floor. They cut deep into the soles of his bare feet. Smears of fresh blood follow him, wetting the cold stone beneath, but he doesn’t stumble nor slip. He knows it should be painful, realizes that he should stop, and notices how the candelabras continue to inch ever so subtly away from his presence before extinguishing themselves while his back is against them.

There is nothing on his placid face, nothing in his amber eyes. No indicative expression of what he feels within and outside. Where there should be agony, there is only apathy. Where there should be fear, apprehension, there is only a complacent incentive to put one mangled and bloody foot in front of the other.

A thin white nightgown hangs off his body, not nearly long enough to cover his legs, leaving him both guarded and exposed. Another vulnerability he doesn’t care to rectify just as he doesn’t care for the voice speaking to him in one of those darker corners of the mind. It warns him in a whimpered tone: “there is something behind you”.

It’s uncertain whether this “something” has only just appeared or if it’s been following him since the first candles went out. But he can feel it closing in, lapping up the blood he’s left behind as an offering while he approaches the very last candelabra. It begins to turn away, the light repelled by his mere existence, and he stops. Come to the end of his meaningless journey.

His unseen stalker remains silent, even when he can feel its hot breath as it caresses the back of his neck. He hears a sound akin to the wings of a creature much larger than himself stretching themselves out, preparing for flight. Weary eyes fixate on the last trembling candle flames, holding onto their last seconds of life.

Still, he does not turn around. Barely a flinch even as the nightgown is carefully pulled down, displaying broad shoulders and the top of his chest. His long hair that matches the gold of his disinterested eyes tickles the newly bared skin like feathers. Both parts of his body are caged by precise scars not yet fully healed.

Cold leather skin presses down upon his shoulders, rough against soft. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a hand reach around from behind. Massive, claws, and inescapable. Using a single deft nail, it gifts him a choker made of ruby red drops that slide down his neck before outlining the curves and crevices of his chest. With the blood comes a revelation that brings neither peace nor panic, only acceptance:

_I am with myself._

* * *

Alucard listens to the distant voices of Trevor and Sypha talking, huddled into his blankets, his cheek pressed firmly against his pillow. They didn’t necessarily wake him because in order for one to be “woken up”, they have to be in the deep throes of sleep and dreams to begin with. Alucard was never asleep; not for very long. And his vision was far from a dream, yet he wouldn’t consider it a nightmare either. More like a personal realization; something he already seems aware of and his mind is only giving him a helpful reminder.

The kitchen is five levels down from the guest bedchambers, but he can still hear them, if only as low indistinct mumbles. He can hear certain things more than ever before. Rats scuttling about within the castle walls searching for their next crumb of discarded food or an old grandfather clock ticking the seconds away before ringing out three deep chimes to signal midnight. Out of all his hereditary gifts most humans will never achieve, Alucard used to feel displeasure with this one the least. Then it had to grow more attuned, long past when he needed it most. Overstayed its welcome and now it’s useless.

He can’t even make out the words spoken between Trevor and Sypha.

“How long do you think he’s had those?”

The two travellers both feel as though they’re staring at themselves in a mirror crafted by a rather creative toddler. If not that, then a very doting grandmother or toymaker. A pair of dolls placed side by side on a kitchen counter, fashioned out of simple cloths stuffed with wool, buttons for eyes, and spoons in place of limbs. One is dressed in blue to match its eyes with orange fabric atop its head meant to resemble short curls. The other sits next to an empty wine bottle in simple beige with two tiny red straps across its body and brown yarn for its own hair.

“I suppose not very long.” Sypha replies, bent down in order to get a much closer look at their little imposters. It’s the details of each doll; Trevor’s scar along one eye, a thin piece of string attached to his hip, and the high collar of Sypha’s robe. Alucard made these with care and attention, like he remembered every inch of them. Each individual thread, each stitch a reflection of themselves through the eyes of someone who desired their company.

Neither one is entirely sure whether to be charmed or concerned.

Sypha picks up her twin and taps at one of the buttons with a fingernail. “I think they’re cute. Well made, too.”

Trevor finds it difficult to share her amusement. He knows what an unhealthy coping skill looks like; he could write an entire book on the subject. “Finding a hobby to keep yourself entertained for a couple months is all well and good but don’t you think this meant something else for him? Like a cry for help?”

Sypha holds the doll awkwardly before setting it back down in silent agreement. The worry was there before but perhaps she didn’t want to admit it. After all that’s happened, she needs some respite; to see something and not contemplate its’ darker connotations. Then Trevor had to go and validate her initial unspoken concerns about Alucard. The dolls are not the first sign; they knew something was amiss when they walked down the battered halls of the castle, stepping over untouched broken glass and rubble.

They knew even sooner when those bodies came into view. Both are gone now, removed days ago with haste out of disgust and before other wandering outsiders began to suspect anything, but the blood is still there. Sunken deep into the earth, staining the grass then drying up. Sypha can’t look down, not matter how many times she steps outside.

“There’s so much he will not tell us…” Her thought voiced by a hushed tone is interrupted by a mere glance at the clock. “Look. The day is half gone and we still haven’t seen him at all.” A sense of responsibility and a desire to help surges through her, the same sort that’s always been a vital part of Sypha’s lifeblood. “We should cook him something. That might open him up to talking.”

Trevor nods. “I’ll go get him. I can only take so many “I’m fines” before I grab him by the shoulders and shake out whatever’s torturing him.”

Sypha expected such a plan. The way that Trevor cares, considers, and perhaps even loves is rougher than how others do it. It may have worked for him all those years alone with no one else to offer comfort, but it might not work now; not for Alucard. “Please don’t do that.”

It takes little time for Trevor to scale up the castle from its kitchen to its hall of bedrooms; during their first day back, he asked Alucard if he had any maps to spare. Perhaps too subtle of a joke as the dhampir merely shrugged it off and showed them to their own chambers. Before either one could say another word, another joined expression of relief to see him again, Alucard was gone. Glided out through the door as though he were a passing phantom.

Trevor stops at one of the doors and raps his knuckles against the carved door. Of course there’s no answer, but he’s lucky enough to have it already ajar. Alucard won’t care if he slips in; he doesn’t seem to care about much these days.

“Hey. You awake?” A human-shaped lump covered in blankets stirs atop the bed with its simple, humble canopy; sturdy and made entirely of wood. Nothing like the extravagant transparent silk curtains of Trevor and Sypha’s bed. A head of golden hair pokes out but doesn’t turn around. _No, you’re right,_ Trevor thinks. _It was a stupid question._ Alucard’s complicated relationship with sleep runs deep.

“Sypha and I are making breakfast… though I guess it’s lunch now.”

No need to finish his query; Alucard can answer it. “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat something. You can’t fool me; I know that half-vampires can still eat human food.”

“I will eat later.”

First strike then second soon after without a moment’s hesitation. Trevor already knows there will be more if they continue like this, but he won’t resort to ripping off the covers and carrying Alucard over his shoulder. Sypha wouldn’t approve of that. Even worse, he’d be choking on his own blood before reaching the door, torn out by a certain pair of fangs.

Trevor wants to remain alive. More importantly, he wants Alucard’s demeanour to be a bit brighter. Straightforwardness won’t work, but a different method might. If not, it will at least give Alucard some irresistible blackmail to use against him. Retracing his way through the castle, Trevor makes a mad dash back down into the kitchen. Alucard listens, one ear against his pillow, the other exposed. More voices, more words he cannot understand, followed by a series of quick footsteps coming closer, rising in volume until they stop. Something tiptoes towards his bed. What is it now?

“Alucard… Aluuuucaaaard.”

His sleep-deprived eyes open just a touch wider. It sounds like Trevor’s voice, only with a slightly higher pitch and an imitation of Sypha’s Iberian accent which straddles the line between charming and good enough reason for her to box his ears.

“Please get out of bed. If you don’t come down, I will be sooooooo upset.” Alucard contemplates burying his head underneath the pillow until he feels another presence on the bed; small, light, and flimsy like a doll.

The doll. Panic quickly seeps in, turning Alucard’s body rigid. They found the dolls. He knew it was going to happen, but he needed more time to prepare his admittedly troubling explanation. It would have been better if Trevor and Sypha never found them at all; he should have locked the stupid things away and not keep them in plain sight. For this situation, Alucard blames no one but himself.

“We have food, Alucard! Delicious, scrumptious food.”

Still, it is amusing to hear the rugged Belmont carry on in this manner. “I know that’s you, Trevor.”

“I’m not Trevor! I’m Sypha Belnades, the smartest and most powerful Speaker in the entire world! And if you don’t get out of bed, I’ll burn off all your hair with my fire magic.”

Alucard stifles a chuckle at the similarities between Trevor’s impression of Sypha and his own. They both must know her too well. “For some reason I don’t think you’re the real Sypha Belnades.”

“But I am!”

“Really? Then why do you feel much, much smaller and why does your voice sound like that?”

“I was cursed! By… by a witch! That bitch turned me into this. Now I’m trapped in this pitiful body. But if you have lunch with us, the spell will be broken!” This time Alucard doesn’t try to hold back his laughter. Trevor is clearly having too much fun with his little acting production. But when Alucard, despite his brightening mood, remains in bed with his back turned to him, he nuzzles the doll against the dhampir’s cheek.

“Alright, that’s enough of you.”

“Pleeeeeeease, Alucard?” Trevor moves “Sypha” all along his blanketed body as if attempting to tickle him. Alucard feebly waves his free arm, trying to resist but he feels the doll everywhere, on every inch of him. Moving over the scars.

“Enough, Trevor…”

“Pleeeeease do it for meeeeee?”

Alucard flips over and swiftly grabs Trevor’s wrist. “I said that’s enough!”

The two men finally see each other eye to eye, surprised against panic-stricken, as Trevor’s hold on the Sypha doll wavers. A tense moment passes before Alucard loosens his grip as well, realizing how tightly his fingers dig into the skin. Had his nails been sharpened, they might have gone straight through and down to the bone. His intense gaze relaxes, and he lets go.

“I… I will be down shortly.”

Trevor nods then leaves. In a way, his ridiculous plan worked yet he doesn’t feel successful or proud. He doesn’t even stay long enough to hear a regret-filled “sorry” shyly muster its way out of Alucard.

* * *

Dracula’s modern inventions are a marvel—and a nuisance.

Trevor and Sypha endlessly fiddle with the kitchen’s large contraption. A beast of burning wood logs crafted from metal and copper that’s been seemingly neutered by their shared incompetence. They could wait for Alucard instead of fumbling around until both of them reach their limits of agitation. But the idea was to surprise him with a fully prepared meal the moment he walks through the door. Light a few candles, pour three glasses of finely aged wine; just as Alucard would do for himself.

Now they’ve wasted too much time wrestling with basic cooking mechanics, pining for the days when they could create their own version of hearty gourmet food using only a simple campfire. Even Trevor found himself scrounging about in the cellar, stepping over broken glass, all for a decent bottle.

“I’m using my magic,” Sypha finally announces.

“Don’t do that.”

“I am. I have had enough of this stupid thing.”

“You’ll burn the whole bloody castle down if you do.”

“Would that be such a terrible thing?”

Her reply causes Trevor to stop and think. Just as she whispered exclamations of awe and wonder after first setting her eyes upon the Belmont Hold, Sypha was mesmerized by the castle’s sheer size, the depths of its architecture, and the intricacies of its numerous machinations. Part of her regretted the use of the word “grotesque” before she crushed the castle’s heart in her own hands thus transforming the engine room into an irreparable mess.

She felt so young back then. Now she sees Dracula’s castle for what it truly is and what it may be destined to remain as; a place that causes pain. A place that hurts anything caught within its walls.

Trevor searches every corner of the room before settling on a loaf of bread, a wheel of cheese, and some strips of dry meat hanging from hooks. “He’ll be down soon, let’s just put together something quick.”

He pulls Sypha away and brings her to the nearest countertop just as she contemplates melting the oven down into a steaming puddle. She glares at the butcher’s knife placed into her hand then at the three food items in front of her. Seems too simple given the other ingredients surrounding them, but their time was cut short to begin with.

In the midst of their frantic slicing, pouring, and preparing, they pause to hear delicate footsteps making their way down the corridor. Alucard appears in the doorway, shoulders slouched and the dark circles under his eyes visible even from a distance. He doesn’t announce himself, though his silence does nothing to alleviate the awkward atmosphere. Taking his seat at the table, Sypha joins him along with Trevor, his hands full of three plates. He places them down unceremoniously.

“There. A meal fit for a prince.”

The two wait in anticipation while Alucard sits motionless. He examines the plate’s contents, his so-called “prince’s meal”: layers of stacked goat cheese and bacon sandwiched between two decently sliced pieces of sourdough bread with a thin twig of rosemary placed on top as a last-minute garnish. Not a single vegetable or fruit in sight. Then Trevor and Sypha see something from Alucard that’s been missing for almost the length of an entire week following their return: a smirk. Subdued, but plain to see on his placid face.

“Did you make these, Trevor?”

“We both did, but it was Trevor’s idea,” Sypha answers in his stead. Alucard presses his lips tighter together, an honest attempt to keep whatever’s behind them locked away—a laugh perhaps? Hard to believe as it may seem.

“What?” Trevor demands. “What is it about my cooking that makes you giggle like a young nun who’s seen something naughty?”

“There is nothing wrong with your taste in food this time… shockingly so. I’m just remarking on how… humble this all looks. I expected nothing less from you both. Thank you.”

While Alucard takes his first few bites, Trevor and Sypha look to each other with uncertain expressions. He was always genuine in the small ways he showed his gratitude towards them, and they hear that very same gratitude in his voice. But only a sliver of it; the rest felt clinical. Still, they got him out of bed. They got him to eat. That’s more success they’ve accomplished in less than an hour than they’ve had for days. What they need right now, what they all need, are small victories.

The silence they eat in is comfortable, almost peaceful. Trevor and Sypha both know it won’t last. The enjoyment they feel with each bite of juicy meat, strong cheese, and soft bread comes with a sense of guilt. They know the difficult topic of Alucard’s refusal to tell them anything will have to be brought up now. If not, the wound will only meet the same end that all others left untreated do: left to fester and rot until there’s no hope of talking to him.

Alucard seems oblivious to their eternal conflict; maybe it’s for the best. Once half of his sandwiched is finished, he raises the glass of white wine and down every last drop in one bold gulp. Trevor turns to his own glass, barely half empty.

“Show off.” He mumbles under his breath, though not quiet enough as it catches Alucard’s attention.

“Oh? Have I bested you in that particular skill set?”

“Don’t push your luck. I’m still ahead of you in experience. A good couple of years in fact.”

“Remember, there is just as much inhuman blood running through these veins as there is human. I have more of a tolerance when it comes to certain vices.”

“Give me something stronger than whatever I used to find in my aunt Delilah’s liquor cabinet, and I’ll show you how to take certain vices with tolerance.”

It always happens like this between them, again and again, over and over no matter the circumstances or situation. One man must compare himself to the other, measuring up his own long list of successes and failures. Sypha suddenly loses interest in her food. This conversation could go in many different directions—merely thinking about the probabilities brings her no ease.

“Well, you’ve never been one to refuse a challenge. Let’s test that famous Belmont tolerance, shall we?”

Before Sypha can interject, Trevor does instead, pushing her further into silence. His expression turns grim as he lowers the wine glass. “I’ll pass on that challenge.”

“Showing restraint? I didn’t think you knew the word.”

“No, I just don’t want to give you an excuse to keep drowning yourself in something that hasn’t been resolved yet.”

Sypha is an excellent judge of character; she considers it to be a gift the same way she regards her prowess in the mystic arts. Simple, quiet observations of how a person carries themselves, how they move the slightest inch, and how they react to certain provocations tell her more than words can. When she sees Alucard’s eyes narrow while his fingers curl in on themselves, Sypha braces herself despite being the only one who predicted this. This will not end the way she wanted it to.

Trevor doesn’t notice those sorts of things quick enough, not like her. If he did, he would have swallowed that tactless statement before it had the chance to escape. Wash it down with the very same white wine he so candidly belittled.

“You think I’m drowning myself. How so?”

“Look at yourself, Alucard.”

“I do. Every day, in the mirror. It’s not something I particularly enjoying doing.”

His words sting, laced with venom but Trevor and Sypha understand what he means. Their eyes are drawn to his wrists and that window of skin exposed by his shirt’s plunging neckline. He tries so hard to hide those scars—the ones he still hasn’t explained—but more often than not, they catch glimpses of tender flesh turned raw and inflamed. They abhor the thought of him carrying more yet haunted by the idea that their worries are not unfounded.

If only he would talk to them. Truly and deeply talk to them. Not in this way.

“I also do not enjoy being spoken down to like a troubled infant incapable of making their own decisions.”

“I’m not talking down to you and I’m not trying to tell you what and what not to do.”

“Then what are you trying to do?”

“Sympathize, that’s all. And maybe help. I’ve been down that same road before and it’s not pretty.”

“I never asked for your help. I never gave you permission to coddle me, nor did I ever ask you to come back.”

“But you clearly wanted us to if those two dolls are any indication.”

“Those were not yours to see.”

“You left them out in the open! How could we not fucking see them?”

While voices and tensions rise with every heated exchange, Sypha breaks her vow of reluctant silence. “You cannot keep us in the dark like this forever, Alucard.” Both men turn towards her as all the words she left unspoken for days stumble out less like a steady stream and more like an untempered vomit. “Trevor is right; we just want to help. We want to understand what’s wrong and how we can fix it. But you need to talk with us. What happened while we were gone? Who were those two outside the castle and why on earth did you display them like—”

A sudden loud clatter causes Sypha and Trevor to jump. Alucard holds his plate white knuckled while the rest of him shivers in quiet anger. He dropped it upon the table not hard enough to shatter but enough to crack. His half-eaten sandwich has fallen apart.

“I’m not hungry.” The chair scrapes loudly against the floor as Alucard pushes it back. He takes his leave without another word; not a bitter thank you or something far harsher. In a display of utter defeat, Trevor pushes away his own plate and rubs his face. A way of saying, “that was a fucking disaster”. And it all seemed to be going so well.

Sypha doesn’t want to give in so easily. She follows Alucard out of the kitchen, her voice echoing off the castle’s stone archways and walls that dwarf them both. Nothing more than mice amongst giants.

“Alucard, please.” She calls out, still a fair distance away from him but catching up quickly. “We can fix this, just let us help you.”

“You can’t _fix_ anything. Not even I could.”

Sypha knows she should be more careful with her choice of words but fears that if she hesitates for the slightest moment, she will lose him. He’ll retreat back into his room or another place deeper within the castle unbeknownst to her and Trevor, locking himself away in self-inflicted isolation, shutting out all daylight and human interaction.

“And you can’t keep punishing yourself like this either.” She’s close now; close enough to hold him. Close enough to lay a hand on his shoulder.

“I want to be alone.”

“Alucard…” Sypha keeps her touch light and gentle. For him, it’s just another weight, another burden that’s been forced upon him. A sense of bodily contact he did not ask for. Through the thin fabric of his shirt, Alucard feels her fingertips graze over a scar curving around his shoulder. He spins around and slaps Sypha’s hand away, his lips drawn back into a snarl, revealing fangs that have grown longer and sharper.

She takes a step back, then another until the divide between them is larger than it should ever be. There was no cry of shock or pain even as Sypha stares at Alucard with wide, possibly terrified eyes. He’s never seen her like this; not when their entire world was at stake. She holds the hand that was struck and then he sees it: three fresh claw marks. Alucard glances down at his own hand, though he already knows what he will find.

The rageful lines gracing his face soften while his eyes turn not just sad, but horrified. “Sypha, I…”

“What happened?” Trevor catches up to them, drawing Sypha into his arms. With the utmost care coupled with panic he takes her wounded hand and repeats the question, furiously shouting it in Alucard’s direction who stumbles with his answer.

“I—I didn’t mean—I won’t hurt—”

“What the hell did you do?”

Alucard forces out an apology but is barely heard by either Trevor or Sypha. Again, they fail to hear him when it matters most. They say nothing else, waiting for an admission they might never receive and stare at him as though they no longer recognize their friend. Friend. Alucard cannot breathe, cannot speak, yet his mind screams. Thoughts that plagued him for months which he tried burying now fully resurrected. Was he ever really their friend? Did they ever think of him that way? What must they think of him now?

Do they see him? Or do they see his father?

Trevor and Sypha’s poor attempts to make him stay fall on deaf ears. Alucard is gone from their sight, unable to hear their pleas. They’ll not see him again before night comes.

* * *

“I’m not mad at him. It doesn’t even hurt that much.”

They don’t return to the kitchen. Instead, they traverse the ruined castle hallways until they reach what was once the foundation of Dracula’s genius and intellect. A laboratory filled with knowledge of a future not yet realized by humanity; or maybe a past that was deemed too heretical, too blasphemous by modern European institutions and so it fell into the hands of a monster. Knowledge that might thrive in the hands of someone else but now lies amongst broken machines, like every other room surrounding it. Still, there are smaller forms of medicine which Trevor uses to heal Sypha’s mild injuries. He rubs the cream over her hand, soothing the angry red scratch marks left behind by Alucard’s outburst.

“Well, there might be some bruising. Thankfully he didn’t draw any blood.”

“Would you have gone after him with your whip if he did?”

Trevor leaves the question as is; hovering in an awkward silence while he mentally searches for a change in conversation. Not because he doesn’t have a reply, but because he doesn’t want to face the conclusion he’s come to.

“Why doesn’t he use any of the medicine here? Continue his mother’s work, you know?”

“Maybe he’s just being cautious especially after what happened to her. Human beings are not ready for that sort of new knowledge yet.”

“And he spent more effort cleaning up my family ruins than he did with his own home.”

“You did give it to him as a gift.”

“But now that I really think about it, he never even _liked_ the Hold or its contents. It was a piss poor excuse for a gift.”

“Then why did you do that for him?”

He closes the lid on the jar of cream and places it back on the nearest shelf. Really, giving away his childhood home was done purely on impulse (as are most of Trevor’s decisions). But there was another motive, one he didn’t want to admit to at the time else a certain someone would endlessly mock him.

“He said he wanted to make the castle his grave and… I couldn’t let him wallow in guilt and self-pity anymore, so I thought I’d give him something to live for. A project he could dedicate all his time to and take his mind off things. I didn’t think he’d actually take it to heart like that.”

Sypha gives him a tired smile. “What you did was selfless and good, Trevor Belmont. Give yourself more credit than that.”

He tries, yet all that transpires is an exasperated sigh. “I will never fucking understand what goes on inside his head.”

“Don’t you want to, though? Don’t you want to help him with whatever is troubling him?

“Sypha, I don’t think it’s that easy. You remember those bodies.”

“I try not to.” Nevertheless, she still wants to rationalize Alucard’s current actions which means those two corpses along with his new scars will have to be explained. Her stomach churns at the thought. It couldn’t have been as simple as the shallow excuse of attacking the castle then himself.

“I hate feeling so useless.”

Trevor gently brushes a stray curl of strawberry hair from her face. His smallest gestures of affection are the ones she loves the most. “I know you do. You always want to help others and save the day. That’s what makes you so wonderful.”

“Or naïve.” Sypha almost misses the time when she was far more optimistic, when her view of the world was a touch brighter, but past solaces do not fix present miseries no matter how fondly we dwell upon them—actions do. “We can’t lose another friend.”

Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, Trevor pulls her in close and kisses her head. “We’ll give it more time. Try again tomorrow.”

* * *

It’s not another dream but if it were, Alucard would hardly be able to tell the difference. He saunters down the hall, past each flickering candelabra, stopping momentarily to take a closer look. No soft flesh, no pulsing veins of blood, only painted brass. One piece of evidence to suggest that this is not a dream. Alucard needs that reassurance while he wanders dazed and disoriented, like walking through a thick mist.

The thin nightgown clings to his uncomfortably sweat drenched back, chest, and limbs. He’s taken to wearing the longer kinds, ones that reach down to his ankles. Hardly suitable for humid summer nights but he finds it better this way. Alucard continues on his aimless nighttime trek until he stops at a certain closed door. It’s not the first; there are many rooms within the castle which he finds no use for, so they remain locked away from prying eyes. This one, however, is special to him.

After his father’s death, Alucard thought revisiting his old childhood bedroom would be too painful. A single glance would conjure up memories best left untampered with. Since then he’s looked inside and even walked among its contents, frozen in time. He’s turned these brief visits into sporadic personal rituals, ways of grounding himself—or punishing, it depends on which feels more appropriate. He never touches or changes anything, not the singed carpet, not the crumpled-up bed sheets stained with blood, and certainly not the ring.

Alucard raises a hand to push open the door before pulling back. Not tonight, he tells himself. He carries onward, quickening his pace past another closed door that will stay bolted tight until his bones disintegrate into dust or the castle does, whichever happens first.

Moonlight streams in through the tall kitchen windows, lighting the room in a nightly blue hue. Not strong enough to reach the ever-present shadows that hide in darker corners. That’s where Alucard left the dolls on their shelf, in plain fucking sight as Trevor said. It rings truer now that Alucard stands before them, staring down at the culmination of his little “hobby” long and hard.

Why did he make them with such love and care? With so much attention to their unique, individual finite details? It would have been easier to find two potatoes, a few buttons, some burlap, and be done with them. If there’s shame in the way looks at the dolls now, then what must have been the purpose of starting this project?

Alucard knows that the real Trevor and Sypha are safe in their bed. He felt their presence during his walk; skin upon skin, hands resting along the curves of each other’s bodies. Neither one sleeps peacefully, discontented by earlier events. Because of him. He knows this for certain.

Alucard picks up the Trevor doll first, running a thumb over the plush stomach before sharpening his nail. It tears into the fabric, spilling out the toy’s soft insides. Tufts of white wool gently float down like snowflakes as they clutter the black and white floor, soon joined by a head torn from its body in an emotional fit. Once he’s finished with Trevor, he does the same to Sypha, ripping her into pieces. Everything, the dolls, their destruction and the manner in which they are torn up, it all seems so childish. When Alucard is faced with the mess he created, he’s filled with a confusing sense of regret over his impulsive actions and the frustration that he should have destroyed those dolls a long time ago.

Exhausted, head pounding, and chest aching, he joins what used to be Trevor and Sypha on the floor. Sitting uncomfortably, worsening his ruined posture, staring into nothing. “This is all so stupid.”

* * *

The large platform sways momentarily, dangling in midair before it begins to lower Sypha down the derelict tower that leads far beneath the Belmont Manor. This is the first time she’s seen Trevor’s family Hold in daylight; even in ruins, everything is brighter. Remnants of a once grand legacy that’s been holding on by its fingernails through sheer stubbornness and determination thanks to its last surviving son. She can now see the portrait of his founding ancestor without the obstruction of darkness.

Leon Belmont, fabled vampire killer and the first to hunt down Dracula—in appearance, there are no similarities between him and Trevor. Blond curly hair like a Renaissance cherub, noble demeanour, a true knight of old. That’s what the painting tells Sypha. She knows even less about Leon than Trevor does. Perhaps she’ll discover something in their family archives, something more scandalous than a spell book involving vampire cocks and other unmentionables both human and inhuman. Though it’s certainly not her original intention; Sypha didn’t have any set goal or purpose in mind when she decided to seek out the Belmont archives.

Only that it feels better than being inside the castle. Anywhere feels better than that incubator of sadness, death, and loneliness. Trevor may have questioned it but it’s no wonder Alucard pull all of his effort into one family home rather instead of his own.

Upon arriving at the bottommost level, Sypha steps through the heavy door and nearly repeats her trick of igniting the entire Hold in fire light. Until she notices that every torch has been replaced by the same bulbs of glass found beneath Gresit’s catacombs. There has to be a switch somewhere; always some sort of mechanism or device when it comes to the Tepes family and their inventions. She eventually finds a lever and pulls it down. A gentle humming sound fills the chamber and after a couple flickers, the bulbs illuminate bookshelves, cabinets, and other menagerie all kept in perfect condition.

“Incredible…” Sypha thought she was used to the archives. Questions dance in her mind as she descends the staircase. Is the electricity that Alucard installed the same as what she can conduct with her magic? She’ll have to ask him.

Sypha isn’t looking for anything in particular. Simply being present around books interspersed between trinkets of no doubt dubious origins is enough for her. Meandering down each aisle, taking in the various titles containing any variation of “vampire”, “demon”, “mysticism”, and “grimoire”. They merge together until one happens to stand out: _The Dream World: Mind Spells, Astral Projection, & Psychological Magick_. It almost makes Sypha guffaw. Trevor still insists that the Belmonts were not magicians and never dealt in the more unsavoury aspects of the art, yet the contrary keeps rising to the surface. Sypha knows magic better than anybody and there’s plenty of it running through Trevor’s veins. If he ever picks up a spell and tries reading it, then he might realize.

Sypha holds the weighty tome, carefully skimming over each worn out page lest they crumble under her fingertips. An entire account of how someone could slip their own consciousness into another’s as if stepping into a friend’s home and rearranging its contents. All of which made possible through the simple act of sleeping.

_I will never fucking understand what goes on inside his head._

_Don’t you want to, though?_

Sypha shuts the book without a second thought, feeling shock and a small bit of shame. She deals in elemental magic, manipulating the earth’s natural creations—never human bodies. It’s too dangerous and there are too many risks; something, or someone, could break. Shatter beyond reparation. Some minds are more delicate than others.

But if she did the necessary research, as all good scholars of magic should, she won’t have to jump to such dire conclusions. Her predetermined fears might be dispelled; there might be hope. So, Sypha does the one thing that will always bring her comfort—she reads.


	2. you see yourself as they see you

The water is always coldest in the morning. Before Alucard fills his two buckets with it, he dips a couple fingertips into the running stream, creating a slight shock that helps keep him alert. At the moment, the castle is empty and for good reason. Sypha is in the Belmont Hold; she always seemed more at home down there. The last time Alucard saw Trevor, he was following her outside and presumably down to the archives as well. Still inseparable, those two. Meanwhile he’s here in the woods, away from castles and manors and underground chambers that have held on for generations. This place keeps him both sheltered and vulnerable.

This is a menial task, one of many that fill the days. Yet like all the others, it slipped Alucard’s mind until it reared its head and practically dragged him out of bed. It wasn’t always this way; not so long ago, the task of completing daily chores went differently. Collecting water, gathering ingredients for future meals, he treated them all as though they were part of a religion, a cycle that never stopped turning. Alucard’s mind once thanked him for it. Small distractions were blessings in the guise of simple tasks to keep himself afloat.

Alucard has tried to uphold this new religion. Though his attempts may not be so obvious to others. Occasionally, he’ll see the Belmont tower in the corner of his eye, no longer the crumbling pile of stones stacked atop of each other it used to be. He’ll feel the urge to pick up where he left off with its reconstruction. His palms are getting a bit soft, maybe it’s time to give them a few blisters and splinters again.

Then there’s the one constant thing keeping Alucard from dusting off his tools, the immediate feeling that bars him from other forms of distraction: guilt. The same way he still “lives” within the castle despite its torment, he needs the reminders of what happened and everything he did. Distraction leads to remorse, then comes self-punishment, and finally discipline. This is Alucard’s new cycle, routine, and religion.

This recent excursion may seem like a step forward, but he’s certain it will be followed by many, many steps back.

He doesn’t return with any sense of urgency once the buckets are full. Instead, something in the water catches Alucard’s attention: a grey stone with a near perfect egg shape. He reaches down and pulls it out, wiping the mud and sand off its rough surface.

_“Papa, it’s just a dirty old rock. What’s so special about it?”_

_“Watch closely, my little bat…” Using a single claw shaper than any hunter’s blade, the vampire cuts a perfect line along the stone. It cracks open, revealing colours that only exist in the younger vampire’s imagination. His gasps of wonder bring a smile to his father’s face._

_“Do you know what we call a natural phenomenon like this one, little bat?”_

“Hm. A geode,” Alucard mumbles to himself. Rocks that look unappealing on the outside but once they’ve been smashed open, they transform into treasure chests of jewels and crystals. He remembers now; Dracula used to bring him to the rivers and mountains surrounding the castle so that he could show his son the smallest of nature’s gifts. Without much deeper thought, Alucard drops the geode into his pocket before picking up the two heavy buckets. Sypha might enjoy such a trinket; perhaps it will bring her some much needed distraction. A paltry way of apologizing for the day before.

Alucard prepares for the trek back to the castle, but not before getting a good look over his shoulder, then again once he’s started walking.

* * *

Trevor stares into the fountain, watching as momentary gusts of wind move dead leaves amongst twigs, animal droppings, and other debris littering the cracked stone. Otherwise empty and dried up just like the rest of what used to be the Belmont courtyard. Funny, it’s always the smaller, frivolous things about a broken home that are left to the very end when more important things demand attention and repair. That’s what Alucard did and only now does Trevor truly see the extent of his efforts not just to the Hold but the entire manor itself. Give it a few more weeks of hard honest labour and the building could almost be liveable again.

Why? It’s a question he’s been asking himself since their less than joyous reunion. Trevor remembers what Alucard said on their first night down in the Hold, hearing every word while he himself fawned over a piece of metal and chain. He must have though the Belmont couldn’t hear. “Museum”, “dedicated”, and “extermination” coupled with other unsavoury terms as the dhampir looked over a casket of fanged skulls—one of which was smaller than the others. Much smaller.

Then why do so much for a family that hunted his kind for generations? Like so much else concerning Alucard, the answer may always elude Trevor. Yet the only reaction stronger than his confusion is his own form of guilt. Trevor would say there hasn’t come a chance to show his full appreciation for Alucard’s work, but it’s just another lie and excuse.

He’s tired. Tired of staking his life on the constant movement from one road to the next, tired of putting walls between himself and others when there shouldn’t be any. During that brief, shallow time when he and Sypha settled down, Trevor felt a subtle sense of peace which had been lost to him for years—it scared him. But now that the manor is no longer a forgotten ruin, Trevor looks upon the structure not with sadness or pain, but hope. Life could return to its many rooms and corridors.

If only Alucard hadn’t halted his reconstruction progress. Still, the manor sits there waiting for the necessary work to be picked up again. He could talk to Alucard, offer a helping hand, rough up his palms a little. It doesn’t have to be a one-man endeavour.

Trevor forgoes the thought before it has an opportunity to solidify itself. All of it might be fruitless; there’s no point in having such a conversation if it only ends with more arguing, more yelling, and more of them storming off in opposite directions. More of yesterday’s events.

His flimsy attention span refocuses at the sound of Sypha calling out his name. He turns around and is greeted with an unsteady pile of books where her face should be. “Bit of light reading, eh?”

Sypha peeks out from behind the stack. “If you had come down with me, I wouldn’t be lugging all of these back up,” she says with a strained grunt.

“What’s the urgency?”

“I wanted you to see these.” She places the books down by their feet and begins handing them one by one into Trevor’s hands. He takes them, barely getting anything more than a few seconds to read their titles. What he manages to see doesn’t cultivate much optimism. _Dreamology_ could be indicative of persistent nightmares while _Thought Manipulation Through Magic_ fills him with a creeping sense of dread. Those are only two amongst a dozen more.

“… What?” She asks, stopping once she notices Trevor’s usual silent cynicism. He holds up _Cognitive Astral Projection_.

“Don’t tell me you’re planning on making me your _actual_ braindead manservant.”

She snatches the book away. “This is serious!”

“Hm. These say otherwise. Or are you getting bored of skewering beasties with ice pikes before scorching their arses off and want to try something a bit more subtle?”

“Just listen to me.” Sypha takes a breath to settle herself. “Remember what you said about not understanding what goes on inside Alucard’s head?”

“Vaguely.” But Trevor does remember, clearer than his most sober thoughts. And he already realizes Sypha’s plan before she can spell it out for him. His eyes turn dire while the palms of his hands suddenly feel cold. “Sypha…”

“No, listen. I have looked through all of these and look there are spells one can cast to, to, to project yourself into another’s mind.” She speaks faster than her thoughts. Trevor can’t even get his own opinion out while she excitedly stammers on.

“Sypha.”

“A-and it happens when both participants are asleep, you see, which means we can access Alucard’s mind through his dreams while we are both conscious yet also unconscious at the same time—”

“Sypha!”

“What?” She exclaims. “This is our chance to help him. If he cannot tell us outright then we have to see for ourselves. Otherwise we’ll never truly understand what happened. He can heal and we can finally move on from this.”

“Maybe. Or maybe something goes wrong and none of us ever wakes up again. Maybe we end up putting another crack in that brain of his whether we meant to or not. Maybe we break him completely.”

“Nothing will go wrong as long as we follow the directions.”

“Have you ever cast a spell like this before?”

“No, but the very scholars who wrote these books were once beginners starting out for the first time in their lives.”

“Yes, and then they practiced and studied for decades before sitting down to write the entire fucking codex on mind manipulation.” While Trevor waves one of the books in her face, Sypha matches the rising volume in his voice.

“You are just afraid.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Of course I am! But you can’t abandon him like this just because you don’t want to attempt the only option we have. Do not go back to the man you once were, Trevor.”

Teeth grind together, hard enough to crack and shatter. He stares Sypha down with fury in his eyes; not for her, never for her, only for what she said. “I don’t want to do this because I am so fucking sick of magic. Sick of enchantments, incantations, and all that other occult bullshit. All it ever does is hurt others and make the world darker than it already is.”

Sypha holds her ground, expression placid and immoveable. “Is that what you think of my magic?”

A simple question that breaks Trevor’s hardened demeanour. He knows his answer—her magic is terrifying in beautiful ways and she might be the only morally decent practitioner in the world—but he doesn’t say it like that. “You… Sypha, you know I didn’t mean it like that, I just…” He tries placing a hand on her shoulder before it’s shrugged off. Calmly but with the right amount of force, she pushes a book against his chest. Trevor manages to guess two words from her intense gaze: read it.

Sypha steps back, about her take her leave, before giving him a valuable piece of information that’s long taken root in his mind. All he needs to do is accept it. “The Belmonts were capable of magic. As are you.”

Trevor opens his mouth when she’s too far away to hear or acknowledge.

* * *

When Alucard returns to the castle, he’s faced with a choice: slink back into bed and wallow in a false sense of security or take a bath before Sypha starts confusing him for Trevor. The first sounds more tempting but he’s been mobile all morning, it would be a shame to erase that progress. He could have an alright day. There haven’t been any great or even good days, only the alright ones. The slow and dull kind, which Alucard takes happily. Anything would be better than yesterday.

With no windows to the outside world, the castle’s main powder room is darker than the others. It’s only source of light comes from sweet smelling candles scattered throughout, kept firmly in their places by years of hardened wax like pearl-coloured tears. The walls are dyed in that same sort of red that reminds Alucard of red wine or freshly spilled blood. Drenched in soft candlelight, the room is more a boudoir than a bathhouse (in some parts of the world there’s little difference between the two).

He turns a few heavy knobs at the head of the large brass tub and once the pipes clear their throats, buried deep behind walls and underneath the floorboards, clear steaming water begins to spurt out. Alucard checks the temperature; it burns to the touch which he prefers. He removes his boots yet hesitates with the rest. A single passing glance at himself in the ornate vanity mirror, one glimpse at all the pieces of bare skin despite being fully clothed, and his reluctance seems rational. Even alone, he doesn’t want to see the rest of him.

Alucard sits before the vanity, listening while the tub fills itself to the brim. His eyes glaze over each cosmetic alongside his geode. He settles on a small bottle of herbal oil made from lavender and lemon balm leaves which he gently applies to his wrists. Smells divine, hurts like absolute hell. Liquid seeps into the raw, tender skin and he lets out a hiss. The necessary pain subsides; Alucard’s breaths turn deep and slow. He hates looking up into the mirror only to be faced with his overly familiar weary eyes surrounded by dark circles. It’s unavoidable.

Something on the table begins to shake. For a moment, Alucard thinks it’s because of his own trembling hand gripping the mahogany wood until he notices the river stone. It moves from side to side, teetering then tottering, like a child’s spinning top about to fall. He stares not in fear but with caution as the stone cracks, louder than anything that size should sound. An egg ready to hatch.

Alucard expects to be greeted by a newborn chick when the rock turned egg finally cracks right open. What clumsily rolls out instead is still trapped within its embryonic sack, not strong enough to break through. He assists by making a tear with his nail as a viscous substance pours out along with its inhabitant. There’s hair, two arms, two legs, and a pair of wings weighed down by the fluid. Unsure and a little nervous, he helps clean whatever just emerged, allowing its delicate, transparent wings to fully unfold.

The creature stumbles like a freshly birthed calf getting used to its own legs before using Alucard’s fingers for support. At last, he sees the long caramel hair that envelopes its entire body, not much larger than his outstretched hand. He sees the pointed ears and the earthy green tinge that covers the very ends of each limb.

Despite what humans of sound mind and reasonable logic may proclaim, vampires and night creatures exist in this world. They may very well rule it. Why shouldn’t the smaller, daintier beings of fantasy exist as well?

Softly and with the utmost care, Alucard cups the fairy in both hands and lifts her off the vanity. “Now where did you come from?” A silly question, admittedly.

Her eyes, which seems too big for her tiny face to hold, finally open. She stares up at Alucard, blinking rapidly, before her lips curl back, revealing a smile of pristine yet razor teeth. Wings flutter like a hummingbird’s and following a few delighted inhuman chirps, she’s encircling Alucard, unable to decide where she should land first. A second on his shoulder, then another atop his head. Eventually, she discovers the incomparable joy of hiding herself within the smooth locks of his hair.

“Well, aren’t we an excitable little one.” Alucard manages to pluck her free but the fairy isn’t finished with her thorough examination of her chosen imprint. She comes across his marred wrists and lets out a softened chirp of concern. He mutters the same excuse he gave to Trevor and Sypha: it’s nothing. The fairy can’t hear, or she just doesn’t listen. Determined to use every ounce of her miniscule strength, she begins pecking at the wrist, planting kiss after kiss upon his scarred flesh.

“Oh no, please don’t trouble yourself with that.” There are accounts of fairies who carry certain healing abilities, but this one is still a babe. The only world she knows is Alucard. Better she learns how to crawl before she walks. But the fairy couldn’t care less about any of that. This golden-haired giant could end up being the only world she ever knows or will ever know, and she would be overjoyed. Flying upwards, she holds his face in both arms and nuzzles against his cheek.

It’s a surprising development, but Dracula’s castle will continue to play homestead to all things strange and odd. This fairy may just be oddly wonderful.

* * *

Trevor’s body has always despised him for many reasons, rebelling against itself. He can’t remember what he looked like without his battle scars (if there was ever a time when he didn’t have them), some bones have been broken then rearranged so often they float around amongst muscle and blood utterly ruined. He once considered keeping a log of every time he stumbled into a back alley to cleanse his battered insides through vomiting. One column labeled “drinking”, the other “fighting”. Some nights would require both to be marked up.

Those are understandable reasons. Trevor never thought reading would elicit the same visceral reactions. His head pounds away, the backs of his eyes sting like mad, and there’s an unseen weight pressing down on his chest. It’s been hours since he made Dracula’s disarrayed library his own, surrounding himself with books and half opened scrolls like some hermit monk or scholar holed up in his study. There must be a curse on this room; whoever enters to read its contents and is not the castle’s lord or of undead blood shall be stricken down with nausea, tiredness, and frustration.

Trevor ignores how his mind pulses and aches with every written word. Sypha’s talk of dreams and mind spells is the cause of all this. He’s managed to retain a fair amount of knowledge, though whether or not any of it will be helpful he cannot say for certain. There’s one story concerning an unnamed alchemist of the 10th century who performed dream spells on himself; perhaps he still had some higher morals to not use other bodies for his tests. With these incantations, his mind created absolute paradises where he would live for decades while only a few hours passed in the realm of reality.

The effects on his physical body were apparent; the first time he cast the spell, he aged thirty years in the span of five hours. During his second sleep, he died in the dream world a peaceful old man with no regrets or unfinished business. When whatever colleagues he had left found him, he was a half-rotting corpse in his bed.

Accounts like these—factual or ghost stories—don’t encourage much optimism. Which is why Trevor keeps reading, keeps searching in case it’s not enough. His nose buried so deeply in knowledge previously unknown to him, he doesn’t notice that Sypha has found him. Not until she lays a hand on his shoulder, startling them both. Trevor drops his most recent find while she lets out an exclaimed gasp and holds her chest.

“Christ…” He says breathlessly.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up like that. This is the very last place I expected to find you.”

“I’m full of surprises.” As Trevor gathers up his resources, Sypha observes their contents; the very same she herself had been researching all morning long. Dream lore and mental magic, everything he denounced not too long ago.

Trevor makes a note of her silence. “I looked through that first book you gave me. Started thinking… which is never a good sign with me, and wanted to do some reading myself.”

Full of surprises, indeed. “Trevor, I’m shocked.”

“Hope it’s the pleasant sort. But you should know that I did all of this for you… and for him. Mostly for you.”

Sypha is used to Trevor’s deflections. She thought by now he would readily accept his growing ability to care deeply for others when his outward appearance suggests otherwise. There is always much to rebuild. “These are his books… does that not disturb you?”

“Hm, not really.” Sypha almost chides his nonchalant response, thinking back to how violently he reacted to the prospect of Alucard being his father before their silly duel was put to rest. “Dracula may have been a monster but he was a genius. There’s not much difference between what’s down there and what’s up there. Suppose one has to know their enemy.”

Genius. Trevor Belmont of the House of Belmont is either mad or drunk. Sypha assumes that if his family were alive, he would have been flogged for speaking their own form of blasphemy. The same might have happened anyway had they known about his partnership with the son of their centuries old adversary.

“So… you’ve thought about it?”

Trevor takes a breath, eyes downcast. “You wanted me to read, so I did. To be honest, a lot of this is just fear mongering, which is why I kept at it. There are things worth learning and knowing about. I’m not exactly jumping with enthusiasm over your proposal, but you could say I’m more open to it than I was. We just need to find the right spell.”

“I think I have. It was in one of the books from your family’s library.”

“What do we do?”

“There are a lot of steps involved, but the most important element is that we all have to be asleep. In order for our collective consciousness to enter another’s mind, that person has to be in an even deeper sleep. All but dead to the world.”

Trevor suddenly turns grim and angry. “I’m not fucking drugging Alucard.”

Sypha reacts in an offended manner. “Of course we won’t! Why on earth would you ever assume that?!”

“Sorry… some of the things I read about this didn’t give me the best mindset. Does it involve any savoury acts like blood sacrifices or ritualistic masochism?”

“No, nothing like that. We just need to prick our temples hard enough to draw blood and burn something that belongs to each of us.”

“What’s the purpose of the fire?”

“As long as the items keep burning, we remain inside the dream world. When it runs out, that’s when we wake up.”

“And the blood?”

“Supposedly to help open up our minds. The chapter explains everything in detail. But we need Alucard’s consent first.”

Trevor bites at his thumbnail, something he hasn’t done since the age of thirteen. “It won’t be easy convincing him.”

“If we fail, we fail. It’s his choice.” Though there’s a part of Sypha, deeper and more persistent than she’s willing to admit, that wants their plan to succeed. Not for her sake and not for her ego.

“Right. Let’s go find him.”

They stand up to leave but only walk so far down the corridor before they turn around a corner and nearly crash into Alucard.

“Fuck’s sake, enough with all the sneaking around.” Trevor grumbles once his heartbeat settles.

“I heard voices coming from the library and wondered if it was you two.”

“Course it was us, who else could it have b—” He squints, peering closer at Alucard. “Is something on your shoulder?” It could be an effect of reading too much, but Trevor knows he hasn’t gone insane—yet. He sees the wings, the miniscule head and the even smaller face staring back at him with suspicion.

“Oh, this. Well, I… I found her in the river and—”

“She’s precious!” Sypha interrupts, bending down to get a clearer look at Alucard’s new companion the same way a child looks in fascination at a brand new doll. “I know about these creatures… she’s a pixie, correct?”

Trevor and Sypha hear a series of quick jingles and chirps but Alucard hears something entirely different. “She prefers to be called a fairy.”

“You can understand that thing?”

More jingles, more chirps followed by a distinct growl from the fairy. “She also doesn’t like being called a thing by giant hairy oafs who smell terrible.”

Trevor would almost feel insulted if he wasn’t already accustomed to far harsher and disgusting terms throughout his adult life. So Alucard’s new friend doesn’t like him. Fine, he never liked fairies to begin with. Too many bedtime stories warning him about those who steal babies and gather in hordes to eat the flesh clean off a human’s body.

“Sypha and I need to discuss something with you.”

Alucard’s muscles seize up; he feels the fairy grow more restless, impatient with these two strangers barging into her life and what they might do to her keeper. He calms her with a light pat on her head. Don’t let what happened the day before happen again. Listen to them. Hear what they have to say then react.

“Go on.”

Trevor glances at Sypha and lets her speak for both of them. “We were thinking about what you said the other day, and you’re right. We can’t fix you. It was ignorant of us to believe we could especially after being gone for so long. But we still want to help in whatever ways possible. Talking about it causes you too much pain, we understand that. So maybe if you showed us…”

She pauses, examining Alucard’s demeanour. Still face and even stiller breath. Sypha carries on with extreme care. “We read about a type of magic that focuses on dreams and projecting oneself into another’s mind. If you would allow us, Trevor and I could relive your memories and feel whatever it is you’re feeling through dreaming.”

“What she’s trying to say is—FUCK!” Trevor lets loose an entire chorus of expletives as the fairy swarms about trying to lay another bite somewhere she can reach. In between her efforts, she moves to Sypha and pulls her hair, chirping frantically. They flail their arms, ducking and avoiding the little menace as best they can while Alucard looks on. He doesn’t take any pleasure in watching this chaos, yet is in no rush to stop it. Eventually, the fairy tires of her own antics and hides behind his neck, hissing in their direction.

“If it does that again, I’m pickling it inside a jar full of ale.” Trevor threatens, wiping away the small amount of blood drawn from her many bites.

“How much did you read about dream magic?”

Sypha smooths out her curls and straightens her robe. “A lot. We found books from both the Belmont library and your father’s.”

“Were you aware that you can easily die while in someone else’s consciousness?”

“… Yes, we did read about it.”

Alucard nods, clear that he’s holding something back. He hides it behind an uncomfortable stance and glare. “And when you do, your soul wanders aimlessly between worlds. No heaven, no hell, not even limbo. The only afterlife is emptiness. You’re waiting for peace or punishment or anything you can actually feel, but it never comes. Never to be reunited with your loved ones no matter where they are.”

The final statement instills slight panic within Trevor and Sypha. They know the truth as it’s been sitting with them, a festering wound that demands attention. Neither of them have told Alucard but the way he speaks leads them to believe he somehow knows. The one parent seems obvious, necessary even, but both? Another revelation to weigh heavily upon him. The two brace themselves for his venom and the further erosion of his trust for them. They’ve accepted it; maybe they both deserve his vitriol.

“I will consider it.” Alucard walks away with the fairy still glaring daggers into Trevor and Sypha, plotting their inevitable demise.

It’s not what they were expecting, far from his first reaction to their outstretched hands offering support and help (or rather forcing). Though it does not surprise them. I will consider it, I will think about it, all of it means the same outcome. A gentle, polite method of saying no without pushing someone away.

They have failed, but Sypha was truthful. It is his choice.

* * *

Night arrives quicker at Dracula’s castle. It rushes across the sky and fills each hallway with rushed excitement. The earlier conversation feels like nothing more than a hazy memory, one that warns him of bad tidings whenever it rears itself, now pushed back in favour of things Alucard wants to think about willingly. He sits on his bed holding a white and gold porcelain while the fairy balances herself on his thighs waiting patiently. He had to do a bit of searching in order to find the illusive box. There was an image tucked away in his distant memories; something his mother always carried with her during the later hours of the day. He thought it was only his mind conjuring up a false recollection but he found it by chance.

Dracula was an inventor as much as he was a conqueror, a recluse, and a legend to keep hell-fearing mortals in their place. Yet in the eyes of a child and mother, his grander discoveries paled in comparison to his smaller, more intimate ones. They appreciated and gazed in wonder at the various devices that kept the castle alive like a ticking clock tower but individual items like a music box carry far more heart than gears or electric lights. With a few turns of a small winding key on the side, a soft metallic melody begins to play. The fairy’s ears perk up as do her wings, twitching rhythmically as she stares in elation.

“You enjoy music, don’t you?” He chuckles. She has another surprise in store for Alucard when her mouth opens, and lyrics tumble out in perfect tune with the music box. Her high-pitched voice sounds sweeter than honey in the sunlight, but Alucard is most endeared by her skills as a little musician. Less than a minute of listening to a song she’s never heard, and already the words come more naturally to her than to a seasoned court bard.

He closes the box thus silencing its music and the fairy returns to her happy chirps. It is in these moments when he wishes he could match her cheerful presence. All he can do is return her displays of affection with a tired smile, reopen the box, and fashion a bed just for her. She squeaks in delight, immediately flying in to make herself comfortable before curling up, ready to enter a peaceful sleep after an exciting first day alive.

Alucard snuffs out the room candles and settles himself under the covers. While he dreads tonight’s sleep like all the others that came before and will come after, he feels somewhat pleased that today has joined his list of “alright” days.

Eyes close and he hears the screams. He doesn’t recognize them as screams but instead as distraught squeals similar to that of an animal caught beneath a predator’s claws. Alucard sits upright and turns to the fairy who thrashes about in her makeshift bed, eyes shut tight as sobs wrack her body. The box clatters against the table with every movement.

“What’s wrong? Here, let me help…” He goes to cup her in his hands but her fearful eyes open, tinged red with tears. She backs away even further when Alucard tries again.

“It’s alright. You don’t have to be afraid.” His fingertips brush along her head; he feels how she trembles at the mere sight of him. She’s terrified of a presence she once loved unconditionally.

It takes a moment, but the fairy holds Alucard’s fingers and hugs them against her chest. There remains a hesitation in every action. It’s clear that members of her kind display certain talents that moral minds could never hope to achieve. They’re naturally attuned to the art of music, the mythic science of healing, and the magic of dreams. What did she see within Alucard’s?

He keeps the question to himself out of respect for her sanity; his own as well. Placing the fairy back into the box, she’s not as quick to sleep as she was before and neither is he. She’s too occupied with watching him close, still shaking, while Sypha and Trevor’s proposition crawls its way back into Alucard’s thoughts. It will keep him awake for the rest of the night.

He did say he would consider it.


	3. leading to false paradise with bloodstained hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for brief but graphic descriptions of gore and body horror in this chapter. some additional related links as well:
> 
> [donations for RAINN](https://rainn.org/donate/)   
>  [donations for the Institute on Violence, Abuse, and Trauma](https://www.ivatcenters.org/donate/)

It is an unremarkable bedroom to an outsider. Intimate with walls made from old stone and older wood, though retaining its rich earthly stench, newly chopped from its place in the forest. Dusty toys line atop shelves and drawers, each one in need of a needle and thread. Children with restless imaginations can become so easily bored while playthings can offer endless stimulation inside the humblest of cottage chambers. The toys are happy to be so worn and torn up. Along with the smell of pine and timber, there’s the ever-constant aroma of herbs wafting up from downstairs. There are no centuries of ancient opulence or grandeur to be found in this little sanctuary.

Alucard is greeted with an eyeful of bright sunlight. He shuts his eyes tightly and pulls the hand crocheted blanket further over his head, his fingertips slipping through the individual holes. Another cherished piece of the clinic’s spare bedroom that hasn’t changed in the slightest since he was a boy, from the toys to the embroidered tapestries depicting everyday scenes of nature’s gifts. Wildflowers blooming in a field, a fox chasing after a cunning rabbit, and a doe looking over her fawn. Like with everything else, there’s a certain smell to the blanket which is warm and soothes Alucard’s early morning nerves. He’d stay in bed all day thanks to that blanket.

Minutes pass before he has enough of his own slothful tendencies. Sitting up while cracking his stiff neck, the nightgown hangs loosely off his shoulders and down his chest; unblemished, unscarred. Only smooth skin. Alucard is slow in dressing himself and blames it on the clinic itself. She can deny all she likes, but there’s some magic to be found here. Not in the countless medicines, tonics, or other remedies; those are reserved for scientific fact and logic. Yet he understands why the people of Lupu (and even farther off places) would feel safe surrounded by its presence. They can let their guard down; they don’t have to fear being swindled or mistreated. There’s no need to rush; let the doctor do her work and you’ll walk out the front door better for it. Moving her practice back to her home village as though she were just another homebrew physicist rather than keep it where she was taught proved to be one of her smarter decisions—for now and hopefully forever.

He can’t stay for long. Someone has to keep watch over the castle while its master is living like the man his wife always asked him to be. This is just an overdue visit. If he has any self-discipline, he’ll return home before the predicted downpour this evening.

Alucard makes his way down the staircase overlooking the main clinic room, his feet feeling heavier with each step. He rubs his eyes, still weakened by the sudden bursts of sunlight through the windows and hears the voice before its owner comes into view.

“Look who decided to join the world of the living.”

One eye forces itself open, then the opposite. Alucard sees a woman with the same long flaxen hair standing at the foot of the stairs. She holds a plate of what seems to be egg on toast cooked to perfection upon a bed of fresh tomatoes and lettuce. Lisa must have been waiting for who knows how long just so she could make her son’s favourite breakfast, simple as it may be. But the two of them enjoy taking pleasure in simpler things when the world is everything except simple.

“Anything to have some of your cooking.” He reaches for the plate, giving his mother a good morning kiss on her cheek in exchange (and thanks) for the food. “No patients today?”

“Not until I see Mrs. Djuvara tonight. I have all the time in the world to have a decent meal with you.” She grabs her own as they sit at the centre table adorned with roses and warmed by the nearby fireplace. “Did you have a pleasant sleep, Adrian?”

Adrian? Ah yes, that is his name. It’s always been his name. He doesn’t know how on earth something so forced upon him like Alucard slipped into his mind as easily as the very name he was born with. His mother wouldn’t think kindly of it. Never define yourself based solely on the one half of your bloodline; become your own man. Shrugging it off, he takes the first delectable bite into his toast.

“Actually, it was rather strange.”

“Plenty of dreams?” Lisa pours him a cup of tea then does the same for herself.

“Just one. More of a nightmare, really.”

“Oh? You haven’t had those in a very long time. Tell your mother about it.” 

She’s used to this morning conversation. There were times during his childhood when the castle gears quietly ticked the night away and his echoing sobs sent a panicked Lisa running, almost tripping down the hallways. The cries hurt so much, his small lungs could barely hold his hiccups and short breaths. Gathering him into her arms, she always brought him to the kitchen, poured a glass of warm milk, and asked about his night terrors. Tears and milk stained his flustered cheeks as Lisa rubbed his trembling back. Within minutes, he would calm himself. 

It’s sad to see that the nightmares have never really gone away, but it gives her hope now that he knows how to manage them.

Adrian sips down the bitter liquid before sweetening it with a spoon of honey. “Well… it began with the church. They had finally found this clinic.”

“What did they do?”

“They destroyed everything and arrested you. There was one man, I think he was a bishop from the way he dressed, who kept calling you a witch.”

“Did he now?” Lisa drinks some tea, her expression darkening. Adrian’s story is beginning to unnerve, though she won’t show it. There’s always been some sort of trouble between her and church authority figures; accusations of witchcraft, disturbing the peace with her nonsense ramblings about real medicine, and blasphemy long before she introduced a ring and a son into her life. Not all of it was taken seriously, otherwise Lisa wouldn’t be where she is now. 

She thought she’d get used to it all. For once she’d stop feeling the rage that slowly morphed into fear upon hearing another new accusation.

“What happened next?”

This is the hardest part of the nightmare to recall; harder to say out loud. “They burned you alive at the stake. I tried stopping it, but I was too late. As was father.”

A long healthy pause hangs over their heads. “Goodness, that is a rather distressing dream.”

“There was more but I can’t remember much of it.” _And thank god for that_ , he thinks, easing back into his seat ready to fully enjoy his breakfast. Indeed, there was far more than just Lisa, the church emissaries, and her murder. The nightmare spanned over what felt like months and involved players completely unknown to Adrian; an odyssey of blood, death, and terrible misjudgments worthy of Odysseus. His father might find the parts that directly involved him ironic, comedic even as though something out of the greatest Greek playwrights.

Lisa is quick to change the topic. “You never did tell me why you decided to drop out of that nice university. And after you went through such lengths to get accepted. All those nights without sleep, fretting over some silly entrance exam. You know your father could have easily tipped the scales in your favour… he himself made no secret of it.”

“That would have been cheating, mother.” 

Thankfully, Adrian’s schoolmates never questioned him about his parentage. They were the sort who preferred to distance themselves from their families, determined to forge their own paths in life. No room for gentry with deep pockets belonging to someone else. Certainly no room for the son of the man who very likely scourged their hometowns back when hedonistic bloodshed excited him. “And it’s not as though I hated it there. I got along well enough with the other students, but the entire experience felt… strange.”

“How so?”

“Well, I wasn’t sure how to feel about being taught subjects I already had knowledge of or things about this world that have been disproved by father’s studies. Yours as well.”

“So you lacked another real challenge.”

“Perhaps. I was so far ahead in terms of the work; it didn’t seem fair to everyone else. At least if I continue my studies at the castle, I won’t ever become bored.”

“I’ve never heard of anyone who quit school for being smarter than everyone else.”

“I’m not smarter,” he says with a humbled chuckle. “Just more learned.”

“Such a shame. I was hoping you would bring home a nice lady or gentleman and introduce them to their future mother-in-law.”

Adrian’s gulp of tea suddenly gets caught in his throat. An uncomfortable warmth creeps its way across his cheeks, turning him redder than the half-eaten tomatoes on his plate. “Is that really why you and father agreed to send me off?” He almost says something about how modern places of learning are not secretly masquerades that cover for brothels so young men and women can finally get married at the behest of their parents until he notices Lisa giggling.

“I am only teasing, my sweet. Your father and I have the utmost confidence that you will find the right person. Even if they turn out to be someone you least expected.” Her words of advice are for Adrian, but there’s a yearnful tone in her voice that suggests differently. Someone you least expected—he has a good idea of who she could be referring to.

As Lisa clears the table, she holds Adrian’s wrist in a comforting gesture. The sort a mother gives her child who has been growing up too fast for her liking but must accept it no matter. Her touch burns, causing him to flinch and pull back. Before he can say anything, she’s already gone. He touches the inflamed mark in the shape of a handprint; still hot and with the edges around each patch of exposed skin quickly festering. Only fire could have done this.

Adrian’s teeth clench together as his fingers continue to prod at the burn. More skin begins to flake and peel, tempting him to make an irreparable mistake. Curiosity, the cat, all that and plenty others. He takes a small amount between his thumb and index finger and carefully pulls, hoping it will fall off with only minimal pain. That piece grows bigger, longer, until Adrian is ripping apart his entire forearm. His own disgust doesn’t stop him.

With the first layer of skin gone, nothing more than a discarded tangled heap on the floor, he sees what’s been hiding underneath: his wrist, not bloodied or exposing muscle, but encircled by scars. They look recent, caused by consecrated silver.

* * *

How much of the vision was a dream; how much was a memory. How can a mind like his own differentiate between fact and distortion? Did Adrian really see and speak with his mother that day, mere hours before they took her? Maybe if he stayed longer, he would have been able to stop it all—why did he not? So many elements in his current state of being might not even exist if he had done something differently in the past. Things could have been fixed. Then why did he constantly make the wrong decisions? Why did he never listen to that other part of himself that always told him to stop, stay away, or say no? Why…

“Alucard? Are you still there?”

For a moment, he doesn’t recognize the sound of his own name. He continues to look down at his wrist, the memory of it covered with another layer of skin having been ripped apart by fingernails forever branded into his consciousness. When Alucard does raise his head, he sees the unfocused image of Trevor and Sypha sitting at the same kitchen table, staring back at him. He’s never seen them act so patient; it wouldn’t surprise him if this were just another dream. 

He notices the fairy off to his side. Alucard can’t remember how on heaven or earth he managed to stop her from attacking Trevor and Sypha again. It might have something to do with the pieces of sliced apple he offered her, which she now eats in fairy-sized bites. Her chirps are still uneasy, especially when she glances in their direction, but food seems more important.

“My apologies… I had a terrible sleep.”

“Us too. Strange dreams and all that. You woke us up because you wanted to talk, remember?”

Alucard can hear Trevor’s voice, but some of his words take longer to make themselves comprehensible. He could blame his disassociation on how early in the day it is or how exhausted he feels. Excuses, nothing more. He swallows hard, pushing his memory, and recalls most of what he wanted to say.

“That spell you had in mind… what exactly did your research uncover?”

Sypha’s eyes brighten; not in joy or the selfish pride that she was right all along, but in cautious surprise. A hopeful sign is better than none at all. “Well, from what we read, the incantation is meant to involve multiple participants sharing one person’s singular dream. While they are placed under the deepest sleep, but not so severe as comatose, the others are able to enter into their mind and remain fully aware of what’s happening. This is done through a combination of astral projection and collective dreaming.” The more Sypha explains, the more she realizes how absurd this plan really sounds. Human minds are more complicated and erratic than transforming water droplets into icicles or static into electric currents. 

As she speaks, paying careful attention to Alucard’s reactions, she asks herself: can I do this? Her first moment of unmistakable doubt; she never thought it would be possible. Not with her.

“Whatever your mind is able to conjure, Trevor and I will see it and perhaps change with our own actions. Everything that happens within the dream world, we will be able to feel as well. Including… if one of us gets hurt. Does any of this make sense?”

“It does…” He’s grateful for Sypha’s thorough explanation; truth and honesty are often so rare to find these days. Yet her mention of everything being felt through flesh and bone, including all of the hurt his mind will create, cannot be ignored. He will inflict physical pain again, that much he is certain of. Is it right to unleash that possibility just so he might feel some peace? Peace that doesn’t seem achievable in his eyes.

“I’ve always had… difficulty accepting others’ help.”

His admission is sudden with no incentive or foreshadow; neither one knows how to react until Trevor states the obvious. “But you did ask for our help. When Dracula needed to be defeated you said you needed help to save Wallach—”

“The sort of help I always reject pertains to my own well-being. Neither Dracula nor his son should ever show weakness in the presence of their subjects, otherwise it will be used against him. No vulnerability, no emotional attachment unless you are willing to shoulder the consequences. Members of the Tepes family are enemies of both humans and certain vampires so we can only rely on ourselves.”

Alucard’s throat clenches, as does his heart. It’s hard to breathe without sounding choked. “That’s what happened after you left. I let down the walls I had so carefully built around myself because I thought it was finally safe. I thought myself and others would be safe, but I…”

While another confession, Trevor and Sypha still struggle to decipher Alucard’s intentional crypticism. Even the fairy discards her breakfast and touches his arm, her eyes as wide as they can be with concern. He manages a deep sigh as he helps wipe bits of apple and juice from her face with his sleeve.

“I suppose you both will see for yourselves soon enough.”

They’re not imagining it, nor are they mishearing him. Alucard has agreed to their proposition but there’s no reason for celebration. “We won’t force you into this situation.” Sypha assures, to which Alucard responds with his own insistence.

“And you never did. I have made this decision on my own accord. Though you both must know this: I cannot promise you safety and I cannot guarantee what exactly my dreams will show you.”

“We know.” Sypha’s tone is resolute. Trevor, though silent, shares her sentiment. They themselves haven’t revealed much about their absence but it’s clear they’ve been through far too much and are ready to go through even more. “When do you think you’ll be ready?”

“Tonight, if possible. Are there any preparations that have to be made beforehand?”

“We just need to find an item that belongs to each of us so that they can be burned together.”

“The amount of time the fire goes on is supposed to determine how long we stay within the dream world,” Trevor adds. He seems more comfortable and emotionally involved when discussing these topics, despite the present circumstance.

Alucard thinks of an item to use. Briefly, a ring flashes in his mind before he discards the mental image with haste. No force, dead or alive, physical or spiritual, will convince him to touch that metal band which shines like the very silver that burns his skin. Instead, he is drawn towards the oven. Trevor, Sypha, and the fairy watch with curiosity as Alucard rummages inside, pushing aside half-burnt logs and ashes. 

His hand emerges holding a doll’s head. Aside from the scorch marks along its curves, it bears a slight, shallow resemblance to Trevor. Everything else, all that Alucard tore apart days before, is unsalvageable. The head must have been lucky enough to evade the oven’s flames. Hopefully, it will cooperate in the second fire and burn as it should.

“This should do.”

He places the head on the table for all to see. Admittedly, it disturbs Trevor to see himself beheaded and displayed. A patchwork, craft version of himself but himself regardless. 

“You didn’t have to do it, you know. Rip them up and throw them in the oven like that.” The statement muttered under his breath sounds like a strange admission of sentimentality he might have felt for the dolls. Alucard either doesn’t hear or doesn’t care to address it.

“Trevor, could you please leave the room? I wish to speak with Sypha alone.”

As expected, there’s some resistance on Trevor’s part. He remembers the outcome of when he last left them alone; the strike, the way he held Sypha’s injured hand, and how the accusatory shouts typical of a Belmont came in a fervent torrent. But if he were to argue and throw a fit now, their careful plan would fall apart seam by seam. Trevor wants to trust Alucard just as he assumes Alucard wants to trust him. As always, one reassuring look from Sypha pushes him in a direction of least resistance. He leaves the kitchen with just a nod of his head.

“May I see your hand?” Alucard’s request catches Sypha off guard, planting a seed of hesitation, but she does what he asks without questioning him. Gentler than an autumn leaf falling upon the forest floor, he takes her hand in his. The bruise has gotten bigger, angrier. Something that sounds like “I’m sorry” begins to crawl its way off Alucard’s tongue before he pulls it back.

“One moment… keep holding it like that.” Alucard turns and fetches the fairy away from her half-eaten apple slices. It’s no different from handling a restless full-grown toddler. She whines, growing more uncooperative the closer he brings her to Sypha’s hand. 

“Go on.” The fairy pouts and shakes her head. “It’s alright, she’s a friend.”

More pouting, more shaking of her tiny head coupled with an immature brattish noise made with her tongue sticking out through her lips. “We do not treat our friends like that.”

Sypha stands there awkwardly, watching and waiting while Alucard scolds his adoptive creature. After much coaxing (and threats of no more apples or sweets for an entire week), the fairy takes one look at the bruise. She lowers both wings, pinning her ears back like a small predator ready to pounce at any second. Yet rather than lunge forward with her teeth bared, the fairy quickly spits on the blue-clad giant’s hand before promptly returning to her food. 

Beneath the glob of oddly coloured saliva, the dark purple and sickly blue tinge starts to fade before Sypha’s very eyes until it vanishes. No trace of any argument or scuffle left behind. Lucky she didn’t try to wipe it off out of her own revulsion. She can’t stay annoyed at the fairy or her sour attitude, not only because of how she eventually helped. The little thing is only a day old after all.

_This world is filled with the oddest of things._

Alucard takes in Sypha’s expression of pure wonder at the fairy’s miracle. A voice which might or might not be his own urges him to hold her hand as a gesture of their mended friendship. It’s buried somewhere in the back of his cluttered mind, but he can hear it nonetheless. He nearly does what it says only to step away before she can notice his change in decision. 

“I keep thinking about that day. You were only trying to offer assistance and I… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for what I did and for leaving you like that. Though I know it may be unforgivable.”

It hurts Sypha to hear Alucard’s voice lower itself into such a meekly version of its former self. The same sort of pain she felt seeing him tremble and struggle to hold the cracked pieces of himself together during that quiet morning when sunlight filled a lord less castle. She’s always likened him to Trevor in many respects; confident, self-assured, if a touch better spoken. Also prone to deep bouts of sadness in their own individual ways.

“Don’t be so certain of that. Especially when I have already forgiven you.” The smile on her face is one of her weakest. There’s more that needs to be said out loud, more which Sypha has been sitting on for days, long before she and Trevor returned. Revelations that wrack her with guilt, poisoning other thoughts. “I should be the one apologizing.”

“Whatever for?”

“For leaving you so suddenly and without thinking.”

Alucard already understands. “It would have been selfish of me if I tried to make you stay otherwise.”

“But the dolls. Clearly you missed us while we were just galivanting off in the country having stupid, useless adventures.” Sypha spits out every word as though the bitter aftertaste left in her mouth has finally made her too sick to keep them locked away. Sometimes the truth has that effect. 

“There was no way you could have known. At the time my walls were still upright. It makes sense why you were instinctively drawn towards something grander and away from—”

Sypha doesn’t let Alucard finish. It’s too much for her to hear. She’s lost sleep over this and gone for hours riding in that broken-down wagon without mentioning it to Trevor, trying desperately to rationalize the irrational. What went wrong and how could she have altered it? Was she too trusting? Too optimistic? Was her belief in changing the world for the better too ambitious? In one night—one long, bloody, disgusting night—those adventures that once filled her with the highest adrenaline made her feel just as she described: stupid and useless.

She can’t be useless now; she won’t let herself. Careful not to startle him, Sypha wraps her arms around Alucard’s shoulders and buries herself in the crook of his neck. He feels so soft, so warm; she never should have called him a cold spot in the room.

“Stop it. Stop talking about yourself like that. You were always so sad, so lonely, and back then I did nothing. Absolutely nothing. We’re going to stop it now.”

Alucard doesn’t move his arms; not to push her away or bring her closer. “Don’t. Don’t put that burden upon yourself.”

“Not if you’re so convinced that you deserve it instead.”

He could argue with Sypha. Remind her that this burden is of his own doing and thus should be shouldered alone. He deserves each layer of inward punishment for his numerous sins. But he’s tired; too tired to speak up with any passion and too tired to end their embrace.

Trevor hears everything. He did leave, just as Alucard instructed, but he had to remain near the open door, his back pressed against the wall, and listen carefully. This metaphorical wall that Alucard keeps mentioning; perhaps he has his own walls built up around himself. Stronger walls which have lasted for years, slowly beginning to chip away thanks to Sypha.

Yet when it comes to Alucard and his relation to those walls, Trevor can’t stop thinking about the dream he had. There was no setting or story but rather a feeling. His body writhed in unbearable pain as though something was nestled deep inside of him. He could feel it and knew that whatever it was, it never should have been there in the first place.

Trevor opened his mouth to scream but what emerged up through his throat instead, silencing all sounds, was a piece of bloodied wood sharpened into a fine point.

He tries telling himself it’s not because of Alucard. It can’t be. He won’t let it.

* * *

No one knows the exact date of when construction on the Belmont Hold began. Only that it kept growing over the centuries, filling itself with pages of heretical knowledge, grotesque trophies, and steel rusted with gored remains of dead monsters. But those original records such as rough blueprints hastily scratched across ink stained parchment were among the many casualties of a lost family’s history, hated and destroyed by superstitious authorities. Burnt up alongside noble flesh blackened by flames and boiled blood. 

That’s what Trevor remembers every time he looks at Leon’s portrait as it still hangs on a crooked angle; not anything else. Not the triumphs he used to boast about with pride, not the wish that he knew more about their founder who bears a heartrending resemblance to his own mother, but rather their failures. This grim list unfolds and falls as long as the other. The Belmonts of old met their ends in surprisingly diverse manners. Deaths ranging from self-sacrifice if it meant their enemy would perish as well to the overestimation of one hunter against a pack of lycans. 

Extinction through cowardly ambush conspired by the very people they were sworn to protect feels like a mistake. A bad joke written from the twisted imagination of the world’s most offensive court jester.

Soon it will be dark outside. Trevor wants to keep his mind clear of distractions yet as the platform brings them deeper down the subterranean tower, he has no choice but to give into his thoughts. What if they’re moving too quickly? It might be safer for every participant if they wait until the next day. 

He should have voiced his concerns long before the elevator stops and all three (four if he bothers to count that little winged demon sitting on Alucard’s shoulder) walk through the archive door carrying blankets and trinkets of personal importance. Trevor brings an embroidered patch of the Belmont crest ripped from his old shirt, which he isn’t ashamed to admit he kept for nostalgic purposes. Sypha fiddles with the silver brooch she usually keeps tucked into her robes; the one piece of luxury she was able to afford as a Speaker. In her other hand she carries the book on dream spells, holding it tight against her chest, and a stick of charcoal. Finally, Alucard has his doll head. 

Once inside, they find an open area and get to work all while the dim lights hum above their heads. Trevor lays down the blankets, Alucard prepares the firepit, and for the last time, Sypha checks the instructions, charcoal in dirtied fingers. She draws along the floor with precision a symbol identical to what’s shown on the page. First a circle then three prongs extending outwards; one for each item, one for each dreamer.

“What’s that?” Trevor asks as Sypha tucks a few more things into the already crowded centre bowl.

“Mugwort and anise I found near the castle. It’s supposed to help us sleep and encourage lucid dreaming.”

“This entire catacomb won’t go up in flames while we’re asleep, will it?” 

“That should be the least of our worries.”

It’s too late to ask the questions that race past his train of thought faster than he can keep up with them. Alucard is forced to crawl back into his shell of silence; a terrible place to be which might very well ruin his chances. The feeling of warm blood trickling down his cheek then neck puts him on an even steeper edge. He watches Trevor and Sypha do the same to their own temples, pricking them with the tip of a knife as though members of a bizarre occult ritual. 

The sight of blood doesn’t excite Alucard but then again, he can’t recall if it ever did to begin with. Of course the fairy panics and frets over his act of self-mutilation, but he stops to comfort her. If he cannot calm himself, then this is the least he can do for her. 

“Now comes the hardest part.” Trevor takes his place at the end of one prong. A ball of light balances itself on Sypha’s fingertips as she kneels over the bowl. Simple as lighting a campfire, the mugwort and anise catch aflame. Thin streams of smoke rise into the air before dispersing, filling their lungs with a heavy scent. Trevor and Sypha can feel their eyelids lower with each passing second, too weak to hold themselves up for any longer.

“Ready, Alucard?”

Right now, he is the farthest thing from ready and makes no secret of it. He sits on his blanket, back hunched and hand tangled in his hair, hating himself for wasting valuable time. The stench of burning herbs makes his head pound but the prospect of sleep fills him with dread. He will hurt them; he will hurt himself more and more. He said yes when he should have said no, again and again, it always happens like this—

Alucard’s frantic, loud thoughts stop when he hears the fairy. Her hand on his, no bigger than a mere speck of dust, as she sings. 

_Here a goddess of happiness cries_

_An endless timeless lullaby_

_Sings her song of the dream she has_

_The sadness fills her eyes_

He’s never heard this song before; there’s no real music to accompany it unlike her first artistic venture. If there is any hidden meaning behind each tragic, melancholic lyric coupled with the seemingly bright tune, it completely escapes him. This is as much a new experience for Alucard as it is for Trevor and Sypha. Yet there’s a strange familiarity to the fairy’s sonnet, like something his mother would sing while she gently ran her fingers through his curls until his mind could peacefully drift off into the night.

_End of Love, love is gone_

_No more dreams to dream about, so life is done_

_If it’s so, cut the thread_

_It’s time to let it go_

Slowly, Alucard rests his head against the hard floor covered by the soft blanket. He lets the continuously wafting aroma and the fairy’s voice dull his senses. His body instinctively curls up, lying on its side. The last things he sees are the blurred faces of his companions looking over him. The last things he hears are the fairy’s final lyrics growing more hopeful as her song reaches its end. At least, in his final moments amongst the waking world, he wishes for a hopeful ending.

_Sooner than, dreaming ends_

_Morning of the dawn will bring another day_

_Turn around, you have found_

_A different place to dream_

Twitching her wings, the fairy turns to Trevor and Sypha. She won’t attack them, not after her master called them “friends”, but she will give them a warning: should anything happen to Alucard, she will tear out their eyes until there is nothing left but bloody sockets.

“Would it have been in poor taste if I told him ‘goodnight’ or ‘pleasant dreams’?”

It might have, yet Sypha manages a smirk in response to his attempt at levity. “I have your back, Trevor.”

He lies down, making himself as comfortable as he can. It’s not the hard floor that bothers him; he’s used to far worse. “Don’t worry about me. It’s his back we should be looking out for.” His voice is drowsy with no energy left to spare. One more exhale and he’ll join Alucard somewhere else.

“Like old times?”

“Just like old times…”

Trevor’s eyes close; Sypha lights the items on fire before crawling underneath her own blanket. Only the fairy is left awake. Thus, in silence, the dream begins.


	4. puppetry in dreamland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for references of past trauma and implied sexual assault for this chapter. additional links:
> 
> [donations for RAINN](https://rainn.org/donate/)   
>  [donations for the Institute on Violence, Abuse, and Trauma](https://www.ivatcenters.org/donate/)

There is water in Trevor’s mouth. In his eyes, his nose, and down in his lungs.

Sitting up with a frantic splash, he chokes it all out. He almost drowned once; when he was too small to swim on his own, his father pulled him out of a lily pond while the sun was highest in the sky. It wasn’t the boy’s fault. He thought it looked so serene, so welcoming on a humid summer day. Floating amongst the sun’s bright rays as he submerged himself even felt peaceful until a much stronger hand dragged him onto dry land. The child version of Trevor coughed and gasped for one desperate breath of air while his insides burned despite swimming in liquid. This feels like that first near-death experience.

Trevor wipes both eyes, stinging upon contact as his blurred vision adjusts. The river that he finds himself squatting in is only a few meager inches deep; no more than the pond of his childhood. There’s no current and no flow; when he stops moving, it becomes still as stone. Seemingly harmless but if he had spent another second unconscious, it would have turned deadly. Cupped in his palm, the water is transparent yet when he looks down, it’s darker than any starless night sky.

A couple breaths to steady his nerves, which have been thrown far out of equilibrium. All that Trevor knows at this very moment is this: he is somewhere beyond the limits of reality. He realizes it quickly as there is no place on earth—none which he is aware of at least—where deep chasms hold thick stone walls that reach up into eternity, surrounding him on either side. Forward, behind, and above, there is only darkness.

Trevor comes to another conclusion: he is alone.

“Sypha?” He coughs out along with more globs of water mixed with spit. Standing on weak legs, creating more of a disturbance in the otherwise pristine river, Trevor gathers himself as best he can. There’s no more liquid inside his body; none that shouldn’t be there in the first place. His eyesight is now clear and apart from a throbbing headache, he doesn’t notice any broken bones. As he feels himself to be certain, one hand brushes against a familiar material: leather that winds itself in a circle. A whip—his whip, solid and real.

 _Are you dreaming this, Alucard?_ He asks, gripping the weapon just so he knows it won’t disappear in his grasp. _Or am I?_

Once the legitimacy of Trevor’s whip is solved, he starts walking, quickening his pace with each step. It doesn’t matter which direction because either way, he will end up traveling right back to where he began. The only thing that guides him is calling out a single name while hoping for an answer.

“Sypha! Where are you?” His shouts grow louder and more desperate. They can barely carry an echo in this dead, permeating silence. He continues to make his way through the water, now feeling thicker than before. Trevor isn’t sure whether the dampness on his forehead is sweat or the careening droplets he kicks up one trudge at a time. Everything looks the same, until it doesn’t. In the distance he sees a sudden irregularity amongst the smoothness of one wall. Clear and obvious, Trevor would have to be blind in order to miss it.

He slows to a halt, trying to get a better view, and notices an out sticking ledge with an attached set of stairs that don’t reach the bottom. It’s as though the architect of this unnatural canyon wanted to create more but stopped before they could fully realize their surreal vision. Atop the ledge, Trevor spots a certain shade of blue and strawberry blonde.

“Sypha!” He runs to where the stairs hover several feet above his head, too high to grab onto. Sypha’s eyes open blink by blink, calm at first but like an unsuspecting mouse that’s just come face to face with a cat, she backs away from the edge, examining her place of waking in a panicked manner.

“Trevor?” Her voice is shakier than usual until it steadies itself. Though her chest still heaves at a rapid pace. “Where are you? Why can I not see you?”

“Down here.” Following his voice, Sypha peeks over the ledge and feels momentary relief at the sight of Trevor looking like a drowned rat, but otherwise unharmed. “I’m alright. How did you get up there?”

“I don’t know. I opened my eyes and found myself here…” Yet the ‘here’ remains a mystery, one that Sypha can’t describe. Is it a prison? A cage? Or perhaps a gateway. This place could very well be all of those things and nothing at the same time. Things feel real; her heartbeat, Trevor’s voice, the stone wall she clings to while she stands, and the always present heat that tickles her fingertips waiting to be unleashed. Real, tangible sensations in a world so far removed from their conceptions of ‘real’.

“Did you just wake up as well?”

“Technically speaking, neither of us are awake right now.”

“Right…” Sypha tells herself to get used to this new state of mind. Not only asks but demands it. Cautiously, she walks down the steps and jumps into Trevor’s arms. “Where is Alucard?”

“I haven’t seen him. I’m not even sure if this is really his mind.”

“Why would it not be?”

“It’s too empty and…” Trevor tries rationalizing his own theories. He can’t come up with an explanation as to why he feels so much doubt within him. All that he’s relying on is an instinct deep in his gut. He looks up, dwarfed by the walls, and suddenly sees himself as very insignificant, more so than he’s ever felt in his life. Barely a simple cog in a mechanized universe.

“Does this seem like something he would dream up?”

“Maybe. I don’t know, and neither should you. You said yourself that we have no idea what goes on in his head. That’s why we’re here.” Sypha takes Trevor’s wrist. “Come on. He must be somewhere further down.”

They begin their trek less with confidence and more with faulty resolve. Neither one speaks to the other, both are too focused on their goal, which encompasses many elements. Find Alucard, confront Alucard, understand Alucard—save Alucard? Is that what they’re here for? Trevor and Sypha don’t see themselves as saviours, they’re finished believing in that naïve dream. The two of them are only friends doing what they can; more than what they can.

“It’s transitional,” Sypha mutters.

“Hm? What was that?”

“There was a footnote in the book that spoke of something called a ‘transitional space’. An astral plane of existence that acts as a bridge between the waking world and dreams. Maybe this is one of those places.”

“I’m just going to pretend I know what you’re talking about.”

Sypha narrows her eyes, a typical annoyed gleam appearing in them. “You know what I’m talking about, Trevor. We’re not at the core of Alucard’s dream yet, but we should be getting close.”

“Is that where we’ll find him?”

“Where else would we?”

They continue down their undetermined journey, not noticing how much shallower the water has become because something else has caught their wandering attention. An obstacle placed directly in their path. Soon, with a few more careful steps, a large frame comes into view with ornate golden laurels shaped like tendrils creeping along every side. Its appearance occurs suddenly, as though it was blinked into existence, neither Trevor nor Sypha have time to question how it was summoned.

As unexplainable as the staircase leading to nowhere.

Spurred by this change in endless repetition and routine, the two run towards it, taking it as a hopeful sign that Alucard may be nearer than they think. Trevor tests a hypothesis of his while Sypha stands in front looking utterly perplexed. At first, they believed it to be a mirror but only the water carries their reflections. All that the frame holds is the same blackness closing in on the outside.

“It’s solid.” Trevor announces, somewhat disappointed. His palm slides up and down the back before giving it a good knock of his knuckles. “Thought it was a doorway of some sort, but there’s no way we can walk through. Might just be a portrait frame or mirror with no glass.”

“Question is what’s it doing here?”

“I have a feeling we’re going to be asking a lot of questions like that.”

Sypha isn’t certain about Trevor’s findings, though they sound more plausible (and sane) than her own. She reaches forward, logically assured that she will place her hand upon a flat surface. Her fingers stretch out into nothingness, touching only thin air.

“I thought you said the back was solid.”

“I did. I felt it myself, you would have to take a hatchet to it in order to pass through.”

 _Then why is my hand not feeling anything yet? How am I able to reach in further and further?_ Sypha’s growing unease is matched by her innate curiosity. Slowly, her entire arm follows her hand. There is something else on the other side of this empty frame, this obsolete mirror, or this bizarre doorway. If entering that something else requires a leap of faith, she’ll offer herself as the first lamb to the slaughter.

Sypha doesn’t take a leap, but a simple, ordinary step before the gateway cloaked in gold swallows her whole.

“Sypha? Sypha! What happened?! Where are you?!” Trevor’s immediate response is to continue screaming her name while he grabs either side of the frame as though he were choking out its life, demanding that it give her back. He could knock it down and break it into pieces to see if Sypha will be spat out, but instead fears the worst if he gives into such fearful recklessness.

“Sypha, answer me! Say something!”

Panic turns to shock then confusion when a disembodied hand reaches for him from the darkness. He recognizes it as Sypha’s.

“Take it! I’m alright, just take my hand.”

The voice sounds like Sypha; when Trevor’s fingers stroke against those which are outstretched, it feels like her as well but where is she? Why is she not telling him this? What could possibly await him on the other side?

A recent memory flashes before Trevor; the doll head of himself, Sypha’s silver pin, and his old family crest from an even older shirt. All catching fire left to burn the night away—their ticking clock, so to speak. Every second he hesitates or questions the situation is another precious second wasted.

Trevor takes what he believes, and hopes will be Sypha’s hand. He holds his breath, like slipping underwater, what he should have done that summer day so many years ago, expecting to eventually resurface.

* * *

In the chasm, there was nothing. It merely serves as a bridge, a place of travel for wayward minds caught between various planes of existence. It has no need for visual or physical stimulation. When Trevor and Sypha enter the gateway, they are over stimulated. Trevor hoists himself up onto a flat surface, similar to reaching the top of a mountainous cliff, and uses Sypha’s hand as leverage. Walking in a straight line just to get turned around and climb upwards; he won’t bother with the hows or the whys yet. A warning sign should have accompanied the frame: please leave your logic at the front door.

“You alright?” He asks Sypha.

“I think so. Look…”

They crane their heads and find themselves pinned down. A cacophony of intertwining staircases, archways, bridges, all stacked atop one another with little room for breath or movement. No rhyme, no reason to the madness that ascends, descends, twists and turns in every direction both known and unknown to human comprehension, and even carries itself upside down. Some paths lead through doorways while others create mazes in mid-air before circling in on themselves.

Sypha is reminded of an ouroboros, only these are made from stone and mortar. Finding a spot to focus on in this kaleidoscopic mess becomes a challenge in it of itself.

“Now I know why Alucard seems more confused as of late.” He tries to gauge how far up the chamber goes, yet the constant overlapping of pathways obscures any semblance of a possible ceiling or sky.

“Where does it all end?”

“More importantly, where does it begin?”

Sypha looks for a suitable point where they can put their feet down and not have to worry about tumbling down; any first step would be a good one as long as they get moving. Her well-intentioned search dissolves into uselessness as every spot is equally disorienting as the last.

“Let’s just start climbing and see where we turn up.” Sypha can’t hide how overwhelmed she feels but what she can do is make a decision whenever Trevor fails to contribute one of his own.

After finding a low platform to jump onto, the two ascend their leading staircase, delving deeper into the architectural cornucopia. They leap over gaps, tiptoe across bridges as thin and fragile as a skeleton’s spinal cord, but soon find themselves in a place just like where they started. Circle after circle, dead end after dead end. Trevor nearly plummets to his death when he rushes up a set of promising stairs that bring him to an unsupported ledge. Not so much later, Sypha lets go of his hand for a brief moment only to lose him in the still, quiet chaos. She finds him across from where she stands on an entirely different staircase with no knowledge of how he got there himself.

“Where the fuck is that bastard?” Trevor huffs once they reunite. “We should have run into him by now.”

“... I am not so sure of that anymore.”

“What are you talking about?”

“How can we be absolutely certain that Alucard will appear in this dream?”

With the amount of theories and discoveries that Sypha has made in the short time they’ve been away from the waking world, Trevor wonders if she’ll write a book on the subject upon their return. Or at least pass on the knowledge the way all Speakers do. He’d much rather listen and debate with her than any of the other scholars he had to research prior to this endeavour of theirs.

“It’s his own dream, why wouldn’t he show up? You always make an appearance in yours, don’t you?”

“Yes, but what if… I don’t know, what if he’s in a different form?”

“What form do you usually take in your dreams?”

“... I appear as myself, I suppose.”

Trevor looks at her smugly (as it’s in his very nature) but not enough to incite a heated argument between them. Navigating through this twisted series of corridors weighs too heavily on their thoughts for them to suddenly turn on each other. Breadcrumbs or a spool of red thread won’t do much good either, even if they had any to begin with. This castle of the mind is alive, more than the real castle they reside in, and it is working against them unbeknownst to its host. Giving into the mounting yet unspoken hopelessness that comes with being lost is an unacceptable option, they know this, but it is a tempting one, nonetheless.

Between heavy breaths, Trevor hears something out of the norm. He almost dismisses it out of ignorant frustration until he realizes it sounded like quick and frantic footsteps. “Wait, stop. Stop walking.” He pulls Sypha back. “Are you hearing that?”

“I hear it too… it’s coming from below us.”

Together, they look down at the bridge underneath theirs. Faster than their eyes have the opportunity to blink, they see a flash of some figure cloaked in black and gold scurrying across. There’s no need, as well as no point in asking the other to validate their suspicions; they share the same thoughts. Trevor and Sypha tend to have a gift for that.

“Alucard, we’re here!” She shouts just as the two of them begin their pursuit. “We’re coming!”

One after another, they call out for Alucard while abandoning their previous mode of portage in favour of a more treacherous but quicker route downwards. They catch glimpses of the reoccurring gold and black before the figure once again disappears behind another staircase, bridge, or archway. Taunting them like a rabbit taunts a pack of bloodhounds in the thick of the chase.

“Stop running, it’s just us!” Trevor assures Alucard—if it really is Alucard. It has to be; that hair of sunlight is hard to mistake for anyone else. Eventually, the two reach the end of their race in a straight and stable corridor, glad to be rid of stairs. Although the abrupt change from a location of pure madness to such mundane normalcy with only a few wax-drenched candles to light their way puts them on edge, as does the slightest bit of movement coming from a large groove in one of the stone walls.

“It’s alright, Alucard.” Sypha speaks gently. “We’re here. We’re here with you.”

It takes a moment to coax him out, but the thing that emerges on shy, careful steps is not Alucard. Some crude imitation of their friend that should be Alucard from his black coat embellished with gold details that match his hair and eyes. Yet those eyes are made out of buttons and one seems to be missing along with his left arm, ripped from its socket. Instead of human hair, what sits atop his head is nothing more than a crown of faded yarn strands. His chest displays a small gash that spills out tufts of white stuffing.

A doll. Hastily stitched together then torn up—just like the ones of Trevor and Sypha. The only differences are his limbs which are sturdier and more substantial than soup ladles and wooden spoons. Strong enough to walk forward after a couple initial stumbles.

“... Alucard?” Sypha manages to stutter out. Trevor’s reaction is a touch less eloquent.

“What the fuck…”

“Is that really you, Alucard?” The doll doesn’t answer; only stares up at them with his glazed eye and a slight frown.

“Why are you trying to talk with it?”

“Don’t call him an ‘it’,” she snaps back. Trevor’s willingness to accept anything and everything the dream throws at him grows thinner.

“Sypha, it’s a _doll_. Just look at it.”

“You look at him! He moves and dresses like Alucard.”

“He wouldn’t go so far as to imagine himself as some broken, tossed away old doll. That’s not like him.” His flimsy reasoning stems from denial. It’s a coward’s way of avoiding whatever darker realization that Trevor isn’t ready to face but knows it will confront them no matter their resistance.

“Oh, so you suddenly know him better than anybody.”

“And you believe he would?”

“Trevor, I don’t know what I believe in anymore!”

The doll stops their bickering, a rare thing for Alucard to do even while trapped in a stitch and patchwork form of himself. He pulls on the hem of Sypha’s robe as hard as his single nub of a hand can before hobbling down the corridor. Another stumble and trip later, he pauses, waiting as he visibly trembles.

“What the hell is it doing now?”

Sypha grabs Trevor’s arm in order to shut him up. They both remain still, and he hears it soon enough, reminding him of what he heard before the cyclops of Gresit opened its disgusting lone eye and nearly froze him in time, same as the Speaker and the knight with no head. Heavy footsteps that shake the foundations above; distant at first then louder.

“I think we should follow him.”

There’s not much Trevor can do except trail after Sypha, who keeps a close watch on the Alucard doll. It—or rather he—guides them throughout a winding series of conjoined pathways with sharp corners that sneak up too quickly for anyone to prepare for. The foreboding stomps continue their slow pace, somehow more unnerving than if they were faster. All Trevor and Sypha know is that it’s moving closer.

The unbalanced trio arrive at an ajar door in which Alucard is the first to enter, squeezing his tiny body through the gap. The other two hesitate until they are reminded of their stalker. Fearing what might happen if they stay outside, Trevor and Sypha slip to the other side then close the door. So concerned whether or not the entity will walk past without investigating the disappearance of its prey, they don’t realize what sort of room they’ve entered until they’re convinced the threat is gone.

After traversing through a place of emptiness, a place of chaos, and a place of urgency, all of which have no end, a child’s bedchamber is the unexpected yet soft change they need. Yet they fear the truth it could mask.

* * *

“Does this room look familiar to you?”

Trevor takes in the gentle blue hues of every wall where scribbled pieces of parchment hang like works of art. Somewhere close by, a music box tinkers out an unrecognizable tune. In one corner sits a candle lit lantern with shapes carved out of the cylinder that project miniature moons, shooting stars, and other astronomical symbols with soft edges so a child might find comfort in them as he sleeps. Up on the ceiling is a painted circle displaying smaller stars arranged in a variety of constellations. Anyone with a young mind still developing its own thoughts, ideas, and future dreams would mistake the painting for the real night sky. They can’t find any bed because that side of the room is hidden behind a tent constructed out of sheets and sticks. A place of imaginative refuge for someone very, very small.

It wasn’t like this the first time Trevor and Sypha stepped foot over its threshold. The room felt sick with the heavy stench of blood and decaying corpses, one of which loomed over Alucard, its skeletal arms dripping with rotted skin reaching for his neck. Trevor had to finish what they started; there was no other way to end it. After his sword sliced through tender flesh and clotted blood, Sypha burned all bodily remains until there was nothing left but a single ring nestled amongst ashes.

“It’s his,” Trevor murmurs. “That night when we…” When we killed his father. When we saved humanity. When our journeys ended. He could complete that statement with many apt conclusions, but he’s distracted by the Alucard doll crawling on his belly under the tent flaps. There’s a warm glow coming from its centre along with muffled sounds of people talking, whispering, and laughing.

“Well?” He turns to Sypha who’s just as transfixed. “Should we?”

“He did lead us away from… whatever that was.”

 _That he did._ There’s too much uncertainty for Trevor to trust the strange replica of his friend, but the way in which he shook when they were briefly hounded suggests the doll has no malicious intent. Even so, the true Alucard would never cower in the face of threats and adversity; Trevor will keep telling himself this until he is thoroughly convinced. Squatting down onto their knees, they open the tent and enter.

One of Trevor’s favourite toys, apart from his arsenal of wooden swords, was an elaborate stage larger than his meager body. With it, he would entertain his family by telling stories of past Belmont victories through the art of amateur hand puppetry. Sypha was given a similar gift from a town’s local toymaker. She treasured it dearly, providing her and other Speaker children endless joy. This red and gold toy stage that rests on the foot of Alucard’s bed with the curtains drawn reminds them of their own pasts. How the three of them have always been interconnected, prophecy or not. It should bring comfort, and it does. It also disturbs.

In front, sitting with the utmost patience and politeness, is a dedicated audience composed of toys most children would be happy just to dream about. Alucard situates himself at the back beside two conveniently empty spaces. The others giggle and excitedly mutter to their closest neighbour: the show is about to begin.

“Why not?” Trevor and Sypha take their seats, awkwardly bending their heads to avoid bumping against the flimsy ceiling. Why not indeed. If Alucard wants them to witness whatever he cannot say out loud through a child’s eye, then so be it. It might even bring some levity to their abstract situation.

The curtains open, the crowd hushes, and a pleasant voice fills the tent. “Once there was a prince and his father.” Two impeccably sewn puppets descend onto the stage, moving as marionettes do. One is dressed in black and blood red with dark hair; the other looks like Alucard but with both eyes and both arms intact. 

“They lived in a magic castle that could disappear then reappear in different places whenever it wanted to.”

“Who do you suppose is narrating?” Trevor whispers to Sypha.

“I’m not sure.” To her, it sounds warm and sweet like milk with honey; a voice that safely wraps one in a blanket by the fireplace while the merciless winds of winter billow just outside. A voice belonging to a mother.

Before Sypha can give her reasonable answer, a stuffed wolf turns around and shushes them. She’s able to shake off the encounter and forget it. Trevor can’t help but act offended, sneering back at the toy.

“One day, the prince’s father went mad and vowed to destroy the world. The prince knew he had to stop him, but he could not do it alone.”

Two more puppets appear on either side of Alucard. Trevor and Sypha find themselves staring at their own crafted imitations, limbs and heads dangling from an unseen puppeteer. “Luckily, the prince found two humans—a hunter and a magician—and together, they defeated his father.”

Dracula disappears in a sudden puff of smoke and the audience claps, the sound muffled by their felt and wool hands. Sypha glances down to see the Alucard doll curled up in her lap. While she of course can’t bring herself to push him off, it doesn’t seem appropriate to touch him yet. Not even a friendly pat on his head.

“They all became friends, but the hunter and magician had dreams of their own and wanted to see the world. The prince decided to stay behind and watch over the castle.” 

Trevor and Sypha leave behind a dejected Alucard. His bobble-like head droops down as the watchful toys follow suit, exaggerating their personal looks of misery despite every blank painted-on expression. “The prince lived a good, quiet life but he was lonely. He missed having friends.”

Then the scene changes. Upon the arrival of two different puppets, a man and a woman both with dark hair, a growing brightness envelopes the tent. No more melancholy as the Alucard puppet dances on light feet with his new companions. Trevor doesn’t recognize either character, nor does Sypha, but the insidious dread that has long made its home tells them they should. 

They know these puppets, though not in the way Alucard did.

“Suddenly, the prince was visited by two strangers who needed his help. He welcomed them and soon, the prince had new friends. He didn’t feel lonely anymore.”

Sypha notices the doll shaking again. He hides his button and stitches face away from the stage contents; the only one in the audience to do so. This is a happy scene, nothing should go wrong, until it does. As all good things doomed to meet their messy ends.

“However, the strangers grew impatient. They needed more from the prince. More from the castle.” One puppet starts acting rougher towards Alucard, pushing and pulling, before he’s joined by the second. Alucard stands there confused yet still holds their hands because they’re his friends. He doesn’t blame them. Everyone watches in nervous anticipation.

“So they started taking more.”

The puppets begin with an eye.

“And more.”

One arm.

“And more.”

Alucard remains defenseless even as white fluffs are torn out of his chest. The other two, unaware that they are falling apart at the seams yet continue to move, encircle him with a piece of rope. Trevor and Sypha sit in stunned silence. Is this what he refuses to tell them? Is this what haunts his waking hours? There has to be more, but they don’t want to see it. What they want is to turn away like the doll, thinking they’ve witnessed enough to draw their own conclusions. The play doesn’t offer that mercy.

“Finally, the strangers bound the prince so that he would not escape. With daggers in their hands, they accused him of lying to them. The prince struggled and pleaded but they would not listen. And so to survive, the prince was forced to do something terrible…”

The tent becomes darker, the puppets in shambles shake on their strings. As an unfelt gust of wind snuffs out the light, they fall to pieces, scattering across the stage floor. Still restrained and still missing pieces of his own, Alucard slumps forward on his strings. The toy audience topples over one by one, devoid of the life they originally had. Only the doll in Sypha’s lap maintains its sentiency. Curtains draw; the narrator speaks no more.

Trevor tastes copper on his tongue; the same sort of palpable sensation that comes with seeing something wrong. “Those were—”

“I know,” Sypha finishes his thought. “The bodies we took down and buried… he said they attacked the castle.”

The truth is hard for Trevor to swallow, but he makes sense of it even when it turns his insides rotten. “I don’t blame him for lying. Betrayal like that from your own friends; you don’t walk away unscathed. It leaves a mark that goes a lot deeper than just skin and flesh.”

“We never should have left. We could have stopped it but I was so—”

“Sypha, we didn’t know what was coming. Neither did Alucard. No one could have ever seen this happening.”

“Why did they want the castle so much? What on earth could they have done with it? It can’t even _move_.” Rage mixed with a lack of answers makes for a dizzying combination. Sypha’s words sound too dangerous to regard so lightly.

“Maybe they thought it still had some power left. Then there’s all that forbidden knowledge Dracula kept cultivating for centuries.”

“Which Alucard gave to them willingly.”

“And yet they needed more than that, which it seems he wouldn’t give up so easily.”

Sypha manically chews at her nail. “No, it doesn’t make sense. Those stakes… something else must have sent him over that edge. Even if they turned against him, he regarded them as friends, and he would never do what… the same thing _he_ did.”

His scars; the ones still fresh and angry. From the beginning, they never seemed right. Alucard can touch the slash along his chest, talk about it, because he’s made peace with its origins. He won’t speak of the others while the lightest graze sends him into a near frenzy. Every passing glimpse caught by Trevor tells a different, terrible story.

“What’s the one manmade thing that can leave lasting damage on a vampire?”

“Consecrated silver.” Sypha answers in a low voice, unsure of where Trevor is taking her.

“They must have used some sort of silver binding in order to keep him tied down. But those new scars of his… they’re all over his body, not just the little bits we’ve seen. He’d have to be—”

“The silver could have burned through his clothes. They attacked while he was asleep and therefore defenseless.”

“He’s the lightest sleeper I know, it couldn’t have been that easy. It said he became friends with them. He trusted them, probably enough to…” The foul taste returns to Trevor’s mouth, now feeling dry and rancid. “Sypha, I think—”

She seizes his collar, not as a means of threat or violence, but just so she can tangibly grasp something to stop herself from losing composure. Fingers clutch the fabric, curling tighter into a fist. Had his shirt not acted as a barrier between her skin, each nail might have bloodied her sweat soured palm.

“Stop.” The only word she can manage. Forcefully, she lets Trevor go.

“I know it’s upsetting.”

“I said stop.” Trevor puts it mildly. Upsetting is when her favourite doll was crushed under the wheel of a Speaker wagon as an accident. Upsetting is when she thought her search for the sleeping soldier ended in failure. This, and everything that transpired after she sought out adventure like the heroes of her bedtime stories, go beyond upsetting.

“I don’t want to think about the possibility either, but we have to face it.”

“It did not happen! Not to him!” Sypha disregards Alucard and the tent upon standing. Fury clouds her mind as she flails about before throwing the sheets aside. If Alucard tearing up the dolls of themselves was childish, then she too can give into recklessness. She wants to deny it—needs to, even—but somewhere deeper within her soul than she’s ever felt before, she knows it to be true.

Lingering in the bedroom’s original state, all three stand atop the wreckage, which seems like nothing yet feels like a grander destruction. Sypha promptly exits out the door without a word or glance at Trevor. There’s no notice of Alucard clinging to her robes as she leaves.

“Sypha, wait.” He grabs the doorknob, only a moment behind her. “Sypha, let’s just stop and think—”

She can’t move; not if she wants to keep her heart beating and breath in her lungs. Bright eyes wide with terror, teeth clenched in horror, Sypha looks up into the face of their stalker no longer invisible behind walls or maze passages. Sickly yellow irises stare back; the only shade of colour amongst dark, stony grey skin. Claws grip at the walls, chipping and cracking, the very chamber they’re in unable to hold the being’s ungodly wings and horns sharper than the devil. Gargoyle, demon, monster, it may very well represent all of those things as well as something new. Lips curl back, breathing hot air as saliva mixed with blood drips off every fang too overgrown for its own mouth.

Normal men would fall to their knees and pray. Speak their final communion before heaven, hell, or someplace else takes them. Trevor is not like normal men. He never prays; he acts.

Reaching for his whip, he begins the first assault upon the creature. He catches one arm before it has a chance to touch Sypha who remains paralyzed. The thing bellows out a guttural roar that rings inside Trevor’s ears, throwing off his focus. An opportune moment to throw him like a ragdoll against the wall, then again. His insides hurt, there’s more copper seeping between his teeth, and any fiery attempt from Sypha is quickly countered. It fights like a rabid animal, trying to grab her, until it finally clutches her entire head in its hand, lifting her above the ground. Suddenly it holds perfect control over its strength. 

All the more reason to crush this little pest slowly.

The creature screams bloody murder just as the whip enters its eye. The opposite is a wide target for Sypha’s fire. She drops on the floor while violently gasping for air. Trevor limps to her side, snarling back at their attacker.

“Touch her again and I will fucking kill you,” he spits bloodily. There’s no reasoning with this beast. It blindly charges them, shrieking the way banshees on the moor do. They realize it’s better to run and live than stand their ground and die, throwing away their souls into the empty dream ether.

While reeling from the injury done to its eyes, Trevor and Sypha make their escape along with Alucard. Back into the maze they run, desperate to recuperate in safety. Nothing is safe here; nothing and nowhere. Which is why they must be quick.

“You alright?” He gathers Sypha into a corner. “Hey. Can you hear me?”

Her bones feel bruised, there’s purple and blue on her cheeks, and the edges of her vision are blurred. “I’m alive. We need to keep moving.”

One weakened foot in front of the other, they march onwards. It’s not a question of how fast they can move, but whether they can move at all.

The doll trails close behind.

* * *

Alucard’s fairy hates the quiet. It’s boring and there’s no fun to be had in boredom. Not even the flames in their little bowl keep her distracted. They’ve shown her the same shapes and flickering dancers for over an hour. A morbid, intrusive side of her suggests that she stick her wing into the fire just so she can feel something.

Ears low and twitching, she turns away. Master will wake up soon, she’s certain. His eyes will open, and everything will be made right. She doesn’t care for the other two but if it will make him happy, she’ll hope for their awakening as well.

One of the giants shudders out of the corner of her eye; it’s the rude and foul-smelling one. The fairy’s mood brightens. At last, something exciting. She hovers over the brown-haired man, holding her nose, and studies him. Her smile fades as she lowers her hand.

Blood trickling out through closed lips, yet he does not stir. Only sleeps.


	5. we eat our own in sickness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for gore, body horror, panic attacks, and copious amounts of rotting meat. additional links:
> 
> [donations for RAINN](https://rainn.org/donate/)   
>  [donations for the Institute on Violence, Abuse, and Trauma](https://www.ivatcenters.org/donate/)

Every step leaves another blister upon the cracked soles of their feet. Always moving up one staircase followed by one more towards a destination still unknown and uncertain if they will ever reach an end, if it does exist. There is no relief in leaving the danger behind, for neither can tell for certain whether it will strike again while they slowly recover from each bruise and battered mark on skin. Recover is a rather hopeful term, naively so, but it’s all they can cling to.

They hear footsteps behind, tapping softly against the marble and stone. Trevor and Sypha realize they belong to Alucard as he toddles closely along the way a flimsy doll would. He tries his absolute best to keep up despite doing it alone. He’s harmless; unbearably and perhaps even uncharacteristically so, they know this now. Yet all the same, those noises send sharp pangs of dread throughout their nerves.

Why are you acting like this? The voice in both their minds asks. Why indeed; they knew the risks, the dangers that come with forcing themselves into another’s psyche. Both should know better by now and they scold themselves like penitent children before their mothers are given the chance. Words written in blotted ink should have been sufficient enough warning along with Alucard’s own bitterly spoken omens. He wasn’t making light—he never has.

So many things to speak about, yet there is nothing that can be said. Not of the following doll that carries too much of their friend, not of the bedroom, and not of the puppets. There’s nothing to guide them, only the same vague, naïve hope of recovery and that this will have its better ending.

Trevor thinks he hears a question that slip past Sypha’s bloodied lip, though it’s buried behind hushed mutters and whispers that might have been meant for her own train of thought. “Did you say something?”

He won’t force her into conversation; the memory of seeing her dangle off the ground, head stuck in the clutches of that thing will never leave him. It’s joined by other images of Sypha seconds away from death before some divine hand pulls her away. More often, she can pull herself away. Trevor thought those things would never break her. He hopes nothing will prove him wrong.

“What was that thing?”

“A night creature?”

“No, no, night creatures are easy to fight.” Sypha would say that; it at least gives Trevor optimism that she hasn’t forgotten her original self. “Their born instincts are to hunt, feed, and obey their master, nothing more. This… when I looked into its eyes, I’m not sure what I felt. Fear, dread, sadness. I thought my heart was going to stop. It was never like that fighting other monsters. Back then I felt nothing for them, but this time… I felt too much. Like all the hope in the world had vanished. Gone.”

She holds her pounding forehead. “I must sound insane.”

They walk in uncomfortable silence, seemingly ready to put the subject to a swift rest, but it’s not through with Trevor yet. “It’s been said that Dracula can take many different forms. Bats, wolves, mist, and a whole manner of other beasties you’d be grateful never to lay eyes on.”

“You think that was Dracula?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me. Something that big and that vicious still haunting him.”

“Dracula himself or his death?”

“Both. Everything. All of it.” Trevor doesn’t say it out loud but all the same he echoes Sypha’s previous sentiment: he sounds insane. The way his thoughts spill out past slack jawed lips without any reasonable or human sense. Or perhaps he’s beginning to think in the exact way the dream wants them to. Pure logic is an unwelcome guest in this realm, yet they hold onto it for the security and reassurance they haven’t lost themselves so soon.

Trevor said a terrible thing to Alucard when Dracula’s ashes were scattered to the four winds. He didn’t see it as terrible at the moment, only something he would tell himself if ever he felt burdened by the same painful sentimentality. Your father is dead, it had to be done, no point in feeling bad about it, ex cetera and ex cetera. All the similar things he told a younger version of the last Belmont son those nights he slept in alleyways, avoiding the dirty water that tenants threw down from their windows.

He’s not sure if he fully understands how something he saw as being so necessary could remain to torture Alucard. He wants to and he will try.

“Why are we still here?”

Sypha’s voice is blanketed within a thick mist, distant and faint. “What?”

“We now know everything that was uncertain before. Those conversations wondering what happened and why he was in such pain, now we know. He just told us through… that.”

“The puppet show.”

“Yes, I know it was a puppet show,” she snaps. “What I am saying is we have what we came for. So why hasn’t the dream ended?”

“Maybe there’s more that Alucard wants us to see.”

“How can there be even more? More than what happened to him? More than the thing that almost killed us both?” Sypha doesn’t mean to direct her vitriol against Trevor—or maybe she does. She needs to feel the hot sting of rage and throw it at something or someone, even if that someone may not warrant it.

Trevor’s counter response helps to smother those flames until what she feels instead is shame, brutal and honest. “This was your idea, wasn’t it? We read all those books, did all that research, and managed to convince a man who clearly needed our help to finally accept it because of your determination. That Sypha, the one I know and love, wouldn’t be talking like this.”

Her mind is in such disarray, she barely notices his use of the word love. “I’m just—”

“Scared? Tired? Disgusted? So am I but if we’re still here, then there’s clearly more we can do for Alucard. And now that we’ve found him, we don’t want to keep wandering about like brainless acolytes.”

“You’re calling the doll a ‘him’ now.”

“Well, it is Alucard, isn’t it?”

Sypha would like nothing more than to close in on her own body while her insides continue to twist like the staircases they traverse with frustration. It’s a test of how much she can truly loathe herself with each rebuttal. “No, I… I don’t think it’s really him. It can’t be our Alucard.”

Now Trevor has a turn to feel that first sting of anger. “You said it yourself: he dresses, moves, and knows exactly where to go and what to do in this place just like Alucard.”

“I was wrong, you were right.”

“Sypha, stop denying and _look_ at him.”

His presence is felt but there’s a resistance that keeps her from turning around. A mere glance over her shoulder is too much to ask for. She held a sort of protectiveness over the doll at first, thinking it was Alucard; now she cannot bear to look at him. In his single button eye, the faded strands of yellow yarn, and the tufts of white wool that escape from the tear across his chest, Sypha will only see those puppets and the disturbing, unacceptable truth that came with them.

Whenever faced with the decision to become a coward or hero, she chose the latter knowing it would always be just and right. The coward’s way seems easier though its temptation makes her ill. Yet attempted heroism is often susceptible to disappointment. No good deed goes unpunished.

_You always want to help others and save the day. That’s what makes you so wonderful._

_Or naive._

_I am so tired._

Sypha allowed this leech of perseverance to poison her thoughts, replacing them with cowardice, she might as well let it speak. “We should stop.”

“Stop what?”

“The dream, ourselves, everything. Before someone gets hurt.”

“Now you really sound insane.”

“Would you for once put aside your sarcasm and listen to me?” Her grip on either arm as she holds herself in a cage of her own limbs tightens.

“I do listen to you and I am listening right now. And I think it’s a terrible idea.”

“Trevor, we could die in here.”

“When has that ever stopped us before?”

“Then Alucard could die and we would be the cause of it! Is that enough to convince you?!” It doesn’t, but it does make him pause. Sypha’s throat feels raw to the point of hurting and her face too warm in a realm so devoid of any real earthly temperature.

“Our questions have been answered. We can use what we came for to help him back out there.”

“If he wanted that, he would have woken up by now and I’m not forcing him to. You can be exhausted, so scared you can’t even move, fucking pissed off beyond belief, I won’t stop you. But don’t you dare start talking in the same way I once did.”

The same way he once did; Sypha knows what Trevor means by that. His abysmal dismissiveness towards her family in Gresit, his cynicism down in the Belmont Hold, even his lapses of confidence on their roads. He’s still struggling against a darker version of his past self that has been weighing upon his shoulders for a long time, fighting what seems like a losing battle. If Sypha of all people tumbles down that same path, Trevor will never forgive himself. She won’t forgive herself either because she already doesn’t.

Not much further, barely off their current platform before they arrive at a bridge which refuses to let them cross. Twisted with jagged cracks in the foundation, barely holding itself together. One foot whether in the right or wrong place would mean the end for all three travelers.

Three; yes, there are three of them. More divided than ever. The other two spent all that time needlessly arguing over Alucard, the least either of them could have done is make sure their raised voices didn’t push him away on accident. Trevor is the first (and only) to turn around and see if the doll is still close behind. He’s there, sitting directly in the centre of the pathway, slumped over and the one eye averted from Trevor and Sypha. He creates a motion with his hands, a way of asking “well?”

No movement at first, then a slight awkward shuffle around, presenting the curve of his back to them. He might as well be pouting if the mouth possessed any definition. The sight reminds Trevor of Alucard’s new little friend: petulant, stubborn, and no incentive to budge based on someone else’s terms.

“Alright. You don’t feel like walking? Fine then.”

The Trevor Belmont of old would simply leave the doll the moment he presented the slightest hindrance to their goal—that old beaten down self which the Trevor Belmont of now wants to be rid of for good. Marching over to where Alucard sits, he gently takes him in his hands, careful to mind the tears and wears, and places him in one of the pouches attached to his belt. Just big enough to hold him while keeping the upper flap open. Sypha watches from a distance, unsure of what she could do.

“Comfortable?” He asks somewhere between sarcasm and genuine affection. The doll looks up but doesn’t struggle, doesn’t try to free himself from his new confines.

Sypha taps Trevor’s shoulder and points, speechless as the bridge moves on its own accord, pieces of a puzzle fitting together. Certain cracks remain but no longer does it threaten death for all those who dare cross it.

“You think maybe…” She begins. Trevor feels Alucard huddling deeper into his pouch, not quite happy but content. It is possible; the smallest acts of kindness can bring the smallest sense of stability to one’s mind.

There is no time for hope. This castle seems determined to stamp it out whenever it starts blooming as though it were the first flower of spring. Below their feet, the monster haunting Alucard’s dream makes its patrol. It moves like an aquatic beast; back, tail, and wings swaying beneath the flowing currents, graceful yet predatory.

Strange—even from a higher altitude, it looks too large to naturally exist. Strange and unnerving.

“Come on,” Trevor whispers. “We need to get moving. Sypha!”

He tells her to run; the recesses of her mind that haven’t yet been broken down by hopelessness mirror Trevor’s urgency. If the doll of Alucard could speak, he would possibly say the same thing. Her ears listen; her legs do not. It’s not that she won’t move, it’s that she cannot. Silent panic is the quickest of killers and all Sypha can feel are the creature’s cold leathery talons squeezing tighter around her head until it collapses.

The sweat of Trevor’s hand on her arm pulls Sypha back to the present moment. “I’ve got you. Let’s go.”

Before he leads the charge on impulse, effectively increasing their chances of getting lost or heading straight into the very thing that will never stop until it paints the stark white walls with their blood, he turns to Alucard. They need a guide and Trevor needs him to save their hides one more time. Using his remaining arm, the doll points at a dark opening situated between two archways leading to nowhere. Not a far distance up; it will only take a few steady hands and feet upon the correct ledges.

Trevor mentally thanks him as they quietly begin their ascent. Fingers ache and withered joints crack yet each climber manages on their own. Sypha feels far clearer headed now that she can move. They walk down the blackened passageway until a series of candles come into view. In the pure darkness, they appear to be floating like golden will-o-the-wisps tempting victims further into some wooded unknown. Below each set of three flames are candelabras in the shape of human arms. Trevor hears a sharp crunch under his boot—glass, accompanied by a trail of fresh red.

“Don’t suppose you can tell us where this leads to, eh?” He asks Alucard, squinting into the darkness. No answer, as expected. He feels around for a wall or a concrete substance near one of the candelabras. His outstretched hand touches something pulpous and cold, dripping in liquid same as the kind that comes from a rotting fruit. The stench reminds him of an apple gone sour as well.

“One moment. Let me see if I can make things brighter…” Sypha raises her index and middle fingers in a familiar position, concentrating on one thought: light. Bring light to this internal night. A bright sphere grows at her tips, quickly dwarfing the candles.

Trevor didn’t need her magic in order to notice his palm covered with blood; fresh, wet, and cascading off his skin. They do need it to see the true nature of this tunnel. Bodies—dozens, perhaps hundreds up the walls and along the ceiling, surrounding them on all possible sides. Even those innocuous candelabra arms play a vital part in this grotesque display. Putrid flesh desperately hangs off brittle bone and cracked skull but there is movement somewhere amongst this storm of limbs, stomachs, and heads—alive, squirming like larvae, though barely as the tears and blood fall into their open mouths.

_“H… he… lp… lp me…”_

_“Pl… ple… ase.”_

_“Hu… rt… s… it… hur…”_

_“He… hel… p.”_

The voices sound guttural, distorted, and choked back, thick with swollen tongues and for some bodies, the sharpened ends of wooden stakes. Skin merges with skin, grouping together in a single mangled entity that cannot escape its prison despite every reach and plea. Humans and vampires are equal here; equally contorted, equally suffering, and equally trapped.

Trevor knows what happened to Sypha on that bridge. The two stare in dumbfounded shock and revulsion as the ability to speak or think escapes them both. This image brings to mind a similar encounter; deep below a decrepit church where a creature bloated from consuming the souls of an innocent village until their faces imprinted themselves on every inch of its unnatural body. 

Even so, it cannot match what Trevor and Sypha feel now. Not when Trevor notices his family crest on multiple captives.

“Fuck me in hell… they’re all his.”

“His what?”

“Everyone he murdered. My ancestors who died while searching for Dracula, the ones who are staked… they’re all his fucking victims over the centuries.”

Something else enters into the tunnel, causing Trevor to forget his fury. It moves at a deliberate pace, closer, knowing it will soon find what it demands to covet. This is a game; one it intends to win. Sypha dispels her light and they run, following the small flames, ignoring every “stop” and “no” from the walls. Those souls were beyond salvation long before they intruded. 

At the end, two large doors with the same priceless ornate detailing as the gateway mirror stand in their way. Or rather, provides them an escape. Their only obstacle being a thick chain that binds the doors together by their handles. Sypha steps up, fingertips pressed together in the shape of a diamond and conjures forth a burst of fire. The metal glows red, bits of it dripping off, but the flames aren’t quick. It takes effort and focus, for the chain is much stronger.

“Sypha.” Trevor unconsciously shields Alucard as he listens to the impending footsteps.

“I’m busy.”

“Not to rush a delicate process…”

“You are.”

Only one link severed; time never stops ticking.

“Almost there.” Sweat clouds her vision. Her chipped and ragged fingernails burn. If this does not work, she’ll break it down until every bone in her body shatters out of panic.

“Patience isn’t exactly a virtue right now.”

The chain falls.

“There!” Hands on either handle, Sypha pulls both doors open with all her strength, allowing Trevor and Alucard to slip through before she does. Together, safe on the other side, they push it closed. Bracing themselves for a barrage of force while the doors bend after every charge of the monster.

They are rewarded with silence.

* * *

The room smells of lavender and frankincense. Palms pressed upon the doors, Trevor and Sypha are cautious when they turn around to see what else Alucard has to show them. High ceilings and low hanging crystal chandeliers that glitter with a kaleidoscope of colours in the hazy sunlight through a stained-glass window on one side. Below sits a dining table encircled by cushioned chairs, great in length yet surface-faced empty, save for a sparse number of candle holders. The other wall displays a tapestry of knights in their polished armor and angels who float up on soft fluttery wings beside the lords, gracing them with the long sought out protection of heaven. 

An odd thing to decorate Dracula’s castle, but like the broken remains of churches he desecrated in the past, he keeps it as a trophy of his conquests. Reminding all who gaze upon it that he lives and acts well outside of God’s power.

Trevor and Sypha have never before seen such a lavish display. Even when they strolled through the real castle, gawking into every open door they stumbled across, no room could ever hope to match this. Unfortunately, they haven’t any time to properly admire its decadence. There is the pervasive threat that all the glamour will fall apart. Yet everything seems normal, if a bit sparse.

“Any ideas?”

Sypha walks on ahead through an archway bordered by velvet curtains and into an attached room. She peeks around the corner, sandals tapping against the checkered floor of black and white marble, past a line of chaise lounges. 

“There’s a door at the end. Maybe it leads to the kitchen.”

“Kitchen?”

“Well, this is a dining room. If that thing is still at the other door, this is our only way out. We should take it.”

Trevor waits for Alucard’s opinion, but the doll can only return his inquisitive glance. A man of very few words, as always.

“Doesn’t seem to be anything else we can do in here.”

Sypha almost looks relieved as they take their leave. Perhaps Alucard was simply showing them an easier route through his mind, someplace where they can walk slowly and without fear. Something to detract their thoughts away from the nightmare of flesh. A projection of what he wants his castle home to be; elegant decadence coupled by a peaceful quietness. Trevor opens the humble door, prepared for what the kitchen holds.

One circle, the first. 

They step on light feet into the same luxurious dining hall. The same chandeliers twinkle, the same angels guide their knights, and the same flowery aroma wafts through the air. All that has changed is the table itself. Striking down the very middle is a cornucopia of roast meats, plump fruits, chalices filled with the deepest wines, and even foods neither of them can recognize. Immaculately displayed for a party of many. Whoever created this banquet must have hoped for refined tastes and hungry stomachs.

There are esteemed guests sitting in a few of the chairs, who are not here to eat. Not with mouths stitched closed. They’re like Alucard; crafted from felt, wool, buttons, and yarn. A couple out of place threads but otherwise well put together. Made by someone who cares. Trevor and Sypha stare into the blank, unmoving faces of themselves.

_This isn’t possible._ He realizes the absolute redundancy of his statement before speaking it. A glassless mirror leading to a chamber of stairs that ascend and twist in all different directions isn’t possible. Walking dolls who feel fear, sadness, and reluctance despite having no voice aren’t possible. The core basics of his family’s entire profession for centuries don’t seem possible. Many impossible things are made possible thanks to this dream.

“What should we do?”

Trevor’s immediate theory is that something has gone wrong. They shouldn’t have discarded the room so quickly. He tries opening the doors behind them with no success. Looking to Alucard also proves useless. He doesn’t fidget or pull at his shirt but instead waits until Trevor is smart enough to solve this puzzle.

_Fine, you win. I’m stupid, I’m an idiot, you’ve always been the smarter one; happy? Now tell us what to do._

“Let’s try again,” Sypha suggests. She holds back the addendum of “hopefully something will change” because she is tired of worthless false hope. Back through the curtained archway, down the secondary room, and towards the kitchen door. Sypha opens it this time.

Second circle. At least she was right to forget about hope. The only thing that seems different are the number of Trevor and Sypha dolls crammed together, five at a time on a single chair. There’s more food, too much for the table to hold as it spills over the edges. Still ripe, still juicy, but the enticement has worn out.

“Getting tired of this shit,” Trevor grumbles lowly. Sypha would repeat his dry sentiment if she were not so desperate to leave. Grabbing his wrist, she marches down the same path they’ve taken twice now. Unaware they are completing the third circle.

No more lavender or frankincense, only the gut-churning stench of food gone rotten. Pieces of chandelier scatter across the cobweb and dust covered floor. The one light that shines through the stained glass is a sickly yellow like unsanitary stains the sides of their eyes regretfully notice in every corner. Threads from the tapestry have been torn apart, leaving the once angelic faces mangled and corrupt.

Trevor and Sypha aren’t concerned with the dining hall’s decrepit transformation. They could care less about the ruined decorum or the sound of blowflies gorging themselves on ugly food, deep in the thralls of gluttony upon meat carcasses. It’s the sight of their own crude visages hanging off doll-shaped nooses from wall to wall. Stubby bodies dangle and sway in such numbers, they obscure the opposite end of the room. 

It’s useless to hold their faces to block out the rancid smell, useless to walk through the deluge of dolls packed to the brim with something that does not feel like normal stuffing. Heavier, weighted, and prone to smacking their faces at the slightest push.

Trevor’s patience wears out the fastest. “For fuck’s sake!” 

He strangles one doll of himself, ripping it from the rope before slamming it against the ground. Unsatisfied, he treats it as though he were dealing with a mere insect. His boot stomps down, breaking open the toy at its seams, spilling everything except wool. Mingled amongst fabric, buttons, and yarn lies a pile of bad meat oozing out blood and specks of white that wriggle helplessly, same as the tunnel bodies.

Trevor swears he can hear the maggots crying.

“What did you do?” Sypha demands. “Why did you do that?!”

“I didn’t think that would happ—” 

He’s interrupted by something wet and soft falling onto his head, soaking into this hair. Over his eyes, down his shoulders until it lands near his feet. Unrecognizable lumps of meat and organs swarmed by more larvae and loudly buzzing flies seduced by a new feast. The dolls above him fall in ruins who have burst in a display of gore and soured foods. The floor turns slippery, covered in blood and rotten juices, the same that stain their cowering bodies. Trevor and Sypha do their best to cover themselves but are reduced to their knees, barely sheltered while dolls continue to break apart and splatter all around.

“Get off me!” Sypha sputters out bits of food and blood that made their way into her mouth. Her hands frantically comb through her hair for any unwelcome guests, whether dolls or worms or flies. Wiping his eyes, Trevor catches a glimpse of the table and the filth that has become of its banquet. Chicken legs are now made from human flesh, roast cuts of meat are drawn and quartered naked torsos, and every chalice of dried wine has been replaced with arms, their fingers pointed up at a heaven that does not exist. Had Trevor not cleaned the blood from his sight, he would have still mistaken everything for food.

Is this what it was like for Alucard? Day after day, meal after meal, with nothing but dolls for company. A monotony that made his own organs feel as though they were shriveling up inside him.

For the first time (perhaps the only time), Trevor hears Sypha scream. Shouting and cursing while throwing aside corpses of dolls. Hair and clothes ruined, matted by blood as she curls up enveloped by gory remains, grasping at the sides of her head. Everything that burdened her in the aftermath of the play, up in the spiral staircases, and deep down the tunnel comes crashing down.

“What am I doing wrong? Why do I keep failing?” She cries. “I try so hard… and nothing matters. Nothing changes, things only get worse because of my stupidity! Nothing I have done has made anything better.”

Trevor knows she isn’t just referring to the dining room’s riddle and how they’ve yet to solve it. Her despair runs deeper; it’s been building ever since they turned that wagon around and retraced their journey back home. He crawls over and holds her close against his chest despite her struggles.

“That’s not true. You helped us get this far—”

“Stop it! Stop doing that!” She beats her fists against him, not hard enough to make him let go. “I couldn’t save those people; I wasn’t there for Alucard; I can’t even help him now!”

“We’ll find a solution. We’ll figure this out, I promise.”

He searches for a way to keep that promise amidst the rain of bile before realizing his belt feels much lighter. A hand goes to check on Alucard but finds nothing. It is by pure luck that Trevor notices him climbing onto an empty chair. Once clumsily seated, he turns to them and waits. There are two more chairs on the other side free for the taking. Trevor can’t help his hesitation, but anything to pull them out of their filthy wallow.

“Come on, stand up. I’ve got you.” 

Sypha trembles in his arms, stubborn yet too shaken to resist. Upon standing and seating themselves, they finally see how disgusting this room has made them but like all temporary things, it will wash away. The gore will fall, and the blood will dry out. Alucard rummages through the piles of body parts and emerges with two untouched morsels dragging behind him. Trevor receives a perfectly browned chicken drumstick; Sypha is given a vine of red grapes plump with juice. As for Alucard, he rolls a large grapefruit onto his plate, less inclined to eat it and more to feel included.

His two companions pause, understandably reluctant. Tears prick behind Sypha’s eyes as she stares at the food. Exhausted, revolted, and broken, she holds one grape between her nails and places it inside her mouth. She’s never tasted anything more delicious, nothing sweeter or more refreshing. Trevor’s chicken is better than it appears; tender meat that peels off the bone. The taste, the texture, without fault—they must be dreaming.

Alucard finishes peeling his fruit while the others gather up any nearby plate including his. It’s only courteous, whatever they can do to ease this mess. Always wary as they walk past the rest of the morbid feast and place the dining ware at the table’s farthest end.

Trevor raises his hand and finds it covered with ash—Sypha’s palms as well. The ruin upon their clothes fades into cleanliness just as the banquet’s contents turn to ash. All the carnage gracing the floor, every doll, maggot, and fly sink through the cracks. The dining hall returns to its empty state, not even the tablecloth left behind.

“I think we did it.” Trevor lets slip, unaware of Alucard sneaking back into his pouch.

“But what _did_ we do?” The act they accomplished does not feel grand, nor worthy of any further speculations. They remember the kitchen door and rush towards it, dreading to the point of sickness what might happen if it opens to the same dining hall.

The door creaks; Trevor and Sypha step into the bottom of a slender tower with little windows and even fewer stairs. The only way up is through a platform above controlled by an attached rope and wheel. Sypha thinks about the Belmont Hold and its elevation system; a small piece of familiarity to ground her. 

She lets Trevor operate the platform, spinning the wheel to lower it, while she sits and allows her body to recuperate. Back and chest ache from the strain she put on her heart and lungs, though it’s not the physical sensation that feels the most painful. Her outbursts, the insistence that she could not carry on; she’s thankful that some past version of herself hasn’t been made manifest. That Sypha would berate her and say how dare she. How dare she all but abandon someone who needs her most.

The self-deprecation stops momentarily when Sypha’s leg flinches the same way it does for crawling spiders or strands of fallen hair that feel like spiders on bare skin. Alucard climbs onto her bent knees before losing his balance and sliding into her lap with a soft thud. She nearly giggles, but lost wool is not a thing to be taken so lightly. Holding him up, Sypha helps push his soft insides back through the rip in his chest.

“Careful now. You don’t want to lose even more of yourself.”

Alucard’s lack of an expression puts an end to her carefree attempts. It’s alright to look at him now; it should have been alright to begin with.

“I’m so sorry, Alucard.” He reaches for the hand she uses to gently rub a rope of worn out yarn hair and holds her finger with his nub of an appendage. 

“It’s here,” Trevor announces.

“How far up do you think it goes?”

“Not sure. Forever, maybe. You know what they always say: when you find yourself at the very bottom, you can only go up from where you are.”

Sypha snorts. “That is encouraging.” And foolishly hopeful, which could be what they need in this moment. She fumbles a bit before slipping Alucard into her hood, the most ideal place for him to get comfortable. Helping each other, the three hoist themselves onto the platform that takes them up on its own. 

One small part of the dream castle is kind to them.


	6. destruction of the lost body

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for gore, body horror including eye and skin trauma, body dysphoria, animal death, and strange objects preserved in jars. additional links:
> 
> [donations for RAINN](https://rainn.org/donate/)  
> [donations for the Institute on Violence, Abuse, and Trauma](https://www.ivatcenters.org/donate/)

Trevor Belmont was born into religion, yet he is not a religious man. A relationship that grew complex and convoluted as time wore on. Birthed into two opposite doctrines at the same time. Mother with long braided hair, aquiline nose, and front teeth made crooked from reckless brawls of youth; she was of the old Judea faith, proud and devout in her Jewish ways. Father, dark haired, bright eyed, gentle but firm, a penitent man of the cross. Only one icon could be used as their family crest not out of shame for the other half, but instead out of protection and self-preservation.

He can’t remember much but the last Belmont’s earliest life must have been filled with hymns of Hebrew and Latin, of blessed Magen Davids and frescos of his father’s holy Mary weeping over the bloody and emaciated saviour of all. When that life was forcibly put to an end and his next one began, Trevor was sheltered by rabbis, synagogues, mosques, every small holy place Wallachia could offer. All while another orthodoxy continued its practice of condemning an innocent life who happened to be born into the wrong family at the wrong time.

A man of many religions and none at all.

The same could be said of Sypha. She stands next to him, head turned upwards with Alucard curled up safely in the crook of her hood. In her single commune she introduced Trevor to a multitude of faiths, most members struggling with their own complicated devotions like him. Her head, always hungry for new knowledge forbidden, is a repertoire of Old Testament, New Testament, Talmud. 

She and Trevor in all their irony might be thinking of the same thing. As the platform carries them up into the castle silo, it brings to mind a coveted ladder stretching towards what all good devotees strive for.

This tower will not lead them there. Trevor isn’t Jacob, neither is Sypha or Alucard. They are not angels guiding each other to that holy final resting place. They’re not even ready for it yet. There’s still too much left in the realm of the living that must be dealt with first.

“I assume you’re not ready to talk about it yet.”

Not the first time an inquiry from Sypha has baffled Trevor into silence—won’t be the last. “Sorry, but you’ll have to be a lot more specific than that.”

“Those bodies we saw. You said some of them were your ancestors.”

“Ah. That.” One thing after another in this dream, he nearly forgot about the tunnel and all its wonders. Trevor does what he always resorts to as a means of deflection: cross his arms over his chest and hope the conversation ends quickly.

Sypha sighs. “I’m sorry. I should never have brought it up.”

“I know what you’re probably thinking and you’re right. Seeing them like that… At first I was more angry than scared. But I guess it’s not all that surprising.”

“Why not?”

“Most of my ancestors, the really crazy ones at least—” A redundant statement. All Belmonts are crazy; otherwise the dirty, bloody business they cultivated for centuries would never get done. “They disappeared while searching for Dracula. Those who came back didn’t live for very long. I accepted the fact that that bastard was the cause of their deaths a long time ago. Think about it; what better or more honourable way to die than at the hands of your most powerful adversary?”

His tone hides something, always hiding. He still feels bitterness at the fire and everything it consumed, destroyed as it poisons any memories that haven’t been burned away by the self-harm of alcohol. The Belmonts could not be stopped, nothing on earth had the capacity to end them—nothing except an ancient devil and some well-placed tinder.

Trevor won’t give this conversation the benefit of a continuation. None of them are dreaming for the sake of his own demons or skeleton closets; perhaps another night if this endeavor is successful. 

The platform comes to a sudden halt. Not at the top, not in the middle, but somewhere along this endless tower. All repeating in monotony like the dining hall with its horrors save for a single bridge and the brass door that awaits them on the other side. Their wits in tow, Trevor, Sypha, and Alucard in his space of temporary comfort walk across. They enter into a room both familiar and new. Goliath-esque gears on every side of them, each in various states of disarray. Broken, melted into grotesque displays before being frozen in time. An engine room snuffed of all life; another part of this dream that directly mirrors reality.

“I almost forgot how much damage was done.” Sypha mutters—how much damage _she_ did. It may be time to admit what was obvious from the beginning: she neutered Dracula’s prize possession.

“Over here.” Trevor stands at the apex of the chamber where an altar stands erect, blood dripping over its edge drop by slow drop. Sypha joins him as they stare upon flesh and muscle; a heart chopped into thick chucks of meat. The heart of the dream, the castle, the heart of all things.

“A bit too on the nose, don’t you think?” Trevor says after Sypha suggests her theory.

“Not when I first saw it. The heart was more… geometric. A puzzle box that would not budge unless you knew the right combination.” _Maybe that’s why it was so stubborn._ Why in response to its stubbornness she violently wrestled with the thing as it turned in the palm of her hand before submitting to her strength. “Let’s try putting it back together.”

“How? These aren’t exactly the neatest pieces.”

“Like I said, it’s a puzzle. Come on, your brain isn’t dead yet.”

It amazes Trevor how Sypha can revert back to her jesterly ways at the flip of a coin, even if she doesn’t put her entire heart or soul into it like she used to. He’s more amazed watching her stare down at the bits of flesh, the internal wheels clinking together, her focus impenetrable and immoveable. Alucard meekly tugs at her collar, to which Sypha ignores his feeble pleas for attention. In a moment, she thinks. She will tend to him in a moment’s time.

Using deft fingertips stained with blood, the pieces slide into one position then another after less than a minute has passed. A habit of telling herself “that doesn’t seem right” over again. 

That goes there. 

No, this goes there. 

No, there goes here. 

No, here goes there. 

Trevor helps as best he can though everything is shaped in the same jagged yet soft clump. He reassures himself with Sypha’s words; it’s only a puzzle and puzzles always have their solutions. At last, the heart comes together. Larger than the ones pounding within their chests but still a heart. Before they can think of a way to bind the loose pieces in place, strips of pinkish red meat work faster, wrapping and merging until the organ is fully repaired.

It beats like a soft, steady drum. As do the walls of the engine room. The floor begins to shift, throwing Trevor and Sypha off balance as they trip back down the altar steps. Gears are freed from their stagnant prisons and search for another that will fit perfectly into the imperfect spaces of each cog. Trevor is forced into the middle, pulling Sypha with him. The chamber grows smaller every second another gear comes to life. The thought of their eventual imploded insides and crushed bones seeps into their minds quicker than the thought of escape.

Sypha is graced with a third idea. Raising her fingers, tinged with blood like rouge, she prepares for the strongest ice spell she may ever conjure. Yet all concentration fails when she notices how light her hood feels.

“Alucard? Where’s Alucard? Did you see him?!” 

Did he fall? Did he crawl out? The questions get tangled on Sypha's tongue while she and Trevor frantically search the ground. They find him but not where they stand, forced to cower in the encroaching face of crude mechanisms. Alucard’s head pokes up through a crack in the floor as he wordlessly beckons for them to hurry. Such a resourceful little thing that doll, not so unlike the true Alucard.

Sypha first then Trevor, they scramble and squeeze through the opening with only a few scratches to show for it. All three shelter one another, arms surrounding whichever body they can grasp. Even the doll, who buries himself between either human.

The destruction of metal and iron just above their heads lay waste to their senses.

* * *

Sypha once found a rat stuck inside a stone wall. She was a child fascinated by nature’s less than darling creatures: insects, rodents, amphibians of all sizes. The other Speaker children were terrorized by her outstretched hands full of swamp frogs that stuck to one’s skin. When they opened their toothless mouths, she could see remnants of half-eaten dragonflies with only their transparent wings kept intact. Had Sypha known the full extent of her powers, she would have preserved those wings and worn them around their neck as trophies.

The rat was dead, unfortunately. Suffocated, left to starve and rot into nothing but the sight intrigued her all the same. She thought about the sort of creatures and small worlds that existed in the empty spaces between floors, ceilings, and walls of one’s own home. Close yet invisible to the naked, unsuspecting eye.

Trevor, Sypha, and Alucard (clinging as tight as his nubby limb will allow) make their way downwards the same way a certain younger Belmont climbed down his favourite tree after suffering a broken arm did—very carefully. One step at a slow, cautious time. This must have been what it felt like for that rat stuck in the wall. Life still in its tiny lungs, skittering throughout a house space forgotten and unseen.

Noticing how Alucard dangles and sways off the old sheepskin he always keeps tied around his waist, Trevor scoops up the doll into his palm and drops him back into his belt pouch. “You stay there.”

They say the further down into hell you traverse, the colder you feel. Trevor and Sypha wonder if it also becomes darker. So dark they can no longer see where they place their feet. They might as well find themselves floating in whatever surrounds that long past transitional space between reality and dreams.

In a well-earned moment of relief, they feel a mutual sense of entering into a new room from above, yet the pure darkness continues to blanket them. Trevor feels around, sliding his hand over a rough, flat surface that leaves splinters in his skin. Sypha stays close and does the same until her arms fall into nothingness followed by the rest of herself. She pulls Trevor along as they tumble into the black ether, hurling expletives with every crash into another shrouded obstacle.

Glass shatters, wood breaks, and they finally reach the painful end of their accidental descent. “You alright?” Trevor asks Sypha after checking on Alucard. Disgruntled and a bit squished due to an impromptu landing, but relatively unharmed.

“Fine,” she lies. Everything hurts, her brain rattles loose in her skull, and she can’t pull out the glass stuck in her leg because she cannot see them. She’s alive, they’re all alive, but Sypha is too irritated to revel in that fact.

“Not to rush, and feel free to take your time, but we could do with some light in here.”

Sypha glares at him from the corner of her eye before raising her hands in position. This has become so routine, there’s no hesitation. One fingertip then another and the darkness fades away. Yet just as with the tunnel of bodies merged together against their collective will, they should have chosen to stay in the absence of light. Here, it does not bring safety or stability. It only illuminates what should be kept hidden from softer gazes.

Trevor and Sypha sit amongst cabinets, shelves, and drawers like a crumbling library. No, not quite a library but a closet of skeletons. Things, items, and mementos better left forgotten. Iron tools rusted an ugly brown and red tinge hang in crooked lines off hooks—none are recognizable. Sypha turns, her face inches away from a stuffed hawk’s head crudely attached to the skeleton of a trout, its dead eyes a sickly white. She would find it morbidly comedic if it weren’t placed beside a tall jar filled with piss-coloured liquid. The container houses a preserved fox while a snake emerges from its mouth, coiling itself around the matted furry body.

Sypha covers her own mouth so that any cry of shock is quickly silenced. The sphere of light dims and shrinks until it reveals glimpses of what a master architect creates when they take pleasure in toying with creatures much smaller and weaker than themselves. Trevor saw far more than she did but he won’t say what. His wide eyes and slack jaw tell enough.

“Hey…” He tugs at Sypha’s shoulder and points above. A welcome method of drawing her attention away from two-headed animal fetuses and overgrown insects with legs too numerous for their bodies to hold. Their transfixed gaze crawls along a towering bookshelf until they reach the top. “We must have fallen from up there.”

“There has to be a way out.” There’s no hopeful optimism in Sypha’s voice, but rather a forced desperation.

“You lead the way.”

Wherever they go, the dream makes them feel small and insignificant, dwarfed by circumstances they may or may not be able to change. This room is the same, suffocating them with overarching cabinets, stacked tables, and drawers in disarray. Sypha manages to carve themselves a path through the maze of glass and wood. Trevor notices the skeleton of a four-headed infant, a decapitated horse head with human teeth, and the dissected corpse of a jackrabbit with a decayed heart stuffed into its chest cavity. He tries to ignore it.

A little further along and the walls suddenly open into a larger area. Just as dirty and crowded but drenched in the strange sense of reliving a past experience mixed with deep uncanniness.

“Look familiar?” Trevor whispers. Sypha nods, thinking about the epicenter of Dracula’s genius now left as broken devices and useless contraptions. Languishing knowledge that mirrors the same dead mind it originally sprung from.

“Everything is so much filthier. One can barely move an inch in this mess.” _This must be how Alucard sees it after what happened that night._

“He’s shaking.”

“Hm?”

“It’s Alucard. He’s shaking more than usual.” Trevor shows her his pouch, containing the doll who cowers and trembles himself into a near debilitating state. “I think something might be wrong.”

Sypha’s expression softens. He wasn’t like this in the dining room, the tunnel, not even in his own bedroom. “Here. Give him to me.” With the doll in hand, she lifts her hood and places him in the crook between her neck and shoulder. Now he can be sheltered while never leaving her sight. Alucard accepts, snuggling close against her throat.

Her light keeps them safe—for the time being—as they make their way amongst more destruction encompassed by the surrounding dark. Always moving forward, they catch passing glimpses, enough for their hearts to quicken with each sight. Tools soiled with clumps of hair and dried blood; eyes, tongues, and other unmentionables swimming in sickly liquid sealed away tight inside transparent jars. Discarded ink notes scribbled upon parchment crunch beneath their shoes like leaves on a calm autumn day in the countryside. Trevor feels thrown back in time, looking at everything the same way Alucard did that first night down in the archives.

Sypha shines her beacon towards a mound of what appears to be fur and horns nestled in a far-off corner of the laboratory. Closer inspection shows the face of a bull with the upper half of its body untouched. The bottom half displays a gored mess of bone and organs held together by nothing but its ribcage. 

The beast drags itself along the floor by two hooves the same way a slug would, leaving behind thick trails of blood.

Sypha backs away, too shocked to see what other horrors she might bump into. Softly, her back thuds against a sudden wall that proves itself to not be a wall at all. She touches the surface and feels a series of pulsating blood veins underneath tough skin riddled with infected rashes. Sypha knows she shouldn’t look up but does despite her own thoughts. 

Whatever the being that towers above is, it pays no attention to the three ants near its tree trunk feet. Like clumsy oxen, it shambles throughout the room beside other bearing identical pale skin, dotted with red clots but not a single hair, their black pupils and the bloodied whites of their eyes lost in a canvas of white. None have mouths, only long open wounds littered with teeth.

These creatures should instill fear, better yet disgust. Sypha feels neither—she feels pity.

“What are they?” She whispers to Trevor. It’s strange to acknowledge, but there’s no real danger to be had yet. Either one can gaze upon the sad grotesque figures for as long as they desire. These hulking towers of meat continue onwards, wandering without purpose or destination. Same as stumbling across a hawk gorging itself on a less fortunate animal, one cannot help but stare with morbid curiosity.

Trevor recalls what that thick boulder of a book known as the family bestiary taught him during those late study nights. “Ogres, most likely. But none like any I’ve seen before.”

“You are familiar with these beasts?”

“Ran into them occasionally while I was up in the mountains. They’re more stupid than dangerous. Best to leave them alone.”

“Why would Alucard dream about them? Especially in a room like this one?” Sypha stops before the amount of questions become too much. She’ll have to accept that some of them might never receive answers.

“Dracula liked to employ night creatures of every stature, remember? There were also rumours about his… I suppose his work. It was said that Dracula had a taste for tampering with living beings. The sort of fucked research that most alchemists won’t even touch. He relished it. Couldn’t get enough.”

“But all that medicine… all those machines and knowledge he eventually passed onto a human. Alucard said it himself, he could have changed the world for the better.”

“He was still Dracula.” 

There’s a pensive, reluctant acceptance in Trevor’s blunt statement. It must be due to the dream castle’s influence. No Belmont worth their blood and salt would ever think of Dracula with an air of redemption. Yet, if the monster of humankind loved Lisa of Lupu and raised a boy who soon grew into a man like Alucard, then there could have been hope for him.

Father and son are not one in the same. Trevor wants to be certain of this and will not let his own dream, where he met his gorey death at the tip of a stake emblematic of the Tepes clan, tell him otherwise.

The laboratory goes on. Sypha’s raised arm begs to be let down before her muscles seize up or strain themselves into immobility. Alucard’s soft, tiny body clutching at her cheek coupled with the familiar warmth and sweat of Trevor’s hand in hers both help to lure Sypha into a calm state. Brief as it may be.

Another result of Dracula’s experimentation reinterpreted by Alucard’s mind crosses their path. The light unmasks a human, naked, its legs cut off at the knee by a blade far more precise than even Alucard’s prized sword. Two unnaturally elongated arms have been stripped of all skin and muscle revealing bones sharpened down into spikes. Like the bisected minotaur, this half-living corpse uses its remaining limbs to drag itself over the floor tiles, tapping against the stone as it “walks”. It turns towards the three intruders in a single frenetic motion—too quick for any normal human. A face without skin, a mouth without lips, and eyes without lids stare back before it skitters back into the shadows.

“Maybe keep the light down until we find a way out of here.” Trevor’s voice cracks slightly, somewhere between a whisper and an admission of fear.

Sypha silently agrees but it’s not long before she wonders if it is better to hear and see or hear and not see. Her imagination is an untamed thing. Once she thought it was a blessing just as her grandfather always told her with a beaming smile. Now she wishes it would disappear entirely. Every noise makes her jump while Trevor tightens his grip. This darkness excites the many things they haven’t yet discovered. 

Glass shattering, teeth gnashing, nails scraping against tough marble mingled with fleshy soft sounds like someone’s foot stomping down upon a pound of meat. A shrill cackle worse than a feral crow tickles Sypha’s ear but she won’t dare raise her light. The only solace being her certainty that Alucard is still there. 

Perhaps it is better to see rather than hear.

“I can’t find a door,” Trevor huffs. Part of him earns for the simplicity of the dining room, deceptive as it may have been; at least they had a clear destination. In Dracula’s corruptive laboratory, they might as well be the same as the bumbling ogres.

“We cannot keep doing this. We must be going in circles.” Sypha’s whispers are harsh and quick. Her head twists about, careful not to shake off Alucard, as she searches for a place where they can rest and formulate a concrete plan. “Help me look for shelter.”

“In this fucking mess?”

“An empty shelf, a closet, just something.” She tries to keep her voice low even if she feels the urge to raise it. Trevor’s own frustration thankfully doesn’t last long.

“Over there.” He guides Sypha under a table tucked away in the farthest enclave. Their two bodies barely fit in the cramped space despite crouching their backs and holding their knees tight against their chests. Both are reminded of playing hide and seek, when they thought it to be innocent game of childhood. Invisible creatures continue to scuttle around them, but none attack. None sniff out their scent like bloodhounds on the hunt. Happy to be left alone, to bask in filth and squalor.

Trevor can’t focus on the prospect of escape; he’s too distracted by whatever Sypha fiddles with between her fingers. “What’s that? String?”

“More like pieces of thread. They’re all over the floor, look.”

So they are. Flimsy wisps of all different colours from red to yellow to pure black. Trevor cautiously emerges, feeling with his hands while inspecting their temporary shelter. Together with Sypha, they find drawers filled with everything a seamstress would dream of; needles, buttons, rusty but effective scissors, and spools of quality thread.

Alucard peeks out from Sypha’s hood, curiouser and curiouser. An idea already takes deep root in her mind. “How skilled are you with thread and needle?”

Trevor understands. It’s so obvious, he could have voiced it before Sypha had the chance. He’s had some experience; old shirts with family crests don’t fix themselves. Sitting in a forgotten mud-ridden alley corner while the rain soaked him down to the bone, pricking the same fingertip over and over until it was raw and smeared ruby red drops deep into the beige fabric. A drowned rat in a tunic two sizes too big for something so scrawny.

He doesn’t tell Sypha this. Placing all the necessities on the chipped surface should be a good answer. There’s a candle firmly stuck to the wood, encased in layers of dried wax that look like melted skin. She lights the small wick and picks up Alucard. He barely moves, the one exception being an occasional tilt of his bulbous head—a true doll in need of repair.

“This won’t take long.” Trevor weakly assures as Sypha places him down. He begins his work, more akin to the very physician who raised Alucard than a toymaker. The doll lies immobile, disconcertedly so.

“Careful where you put that needle… Don’t stab him like that!” Sypha whimpers.

“I’m trying as best I can.”

“That eye does not match.”

“I know...”

He stops himself from responding with “if you’re going to keep criticizing, might as well make yourself useful then.” Though Sypha can still sense it by looking at his furrowed brow and intense concentration. She was never comfortable standing off to the side, unable to contribute. While Trevor busies himself by cleaning Alucard’s strands of yarn hair with a small brush, Sypha plucks some excess fluff out of his chest before it can be sewn up. Teeth bared; she rips off a piece of her robe. One secondary thread through a needle later and she fashions an arm made from what little materials she could scrounge up.

“See? Told you.”

They sit Alucard up and take in their collaborative handiwork. Yes, the eyes don’t match in both size and colour, his new arm juts out awkwardly, and there’s one too many stitches across his chest. Mismatched yet put together at last. Another small victory; a flickering candle in the darkness.

Glass shatters somewhere in the laboratory as the abrupt sound overpowers the ogres’ muted groans. Trevor and Sypha turn around, thinking they’ll see nothing in the empty space. Unaware for a brief second that they will be proven wrong. The tall shadowy outline of a human figure stands in the distance, too close yet far enough. Nothing is clear, not the face nor details of the body. Only its eyes, wide and wildly bloodshot, their unnatural brightness cutting through the blackness. One looks to be entirely white until Trevor sees the pupil and iris tucked down near the very corner of the socket.

The figure stands unmoving, its gaze still locked onto its prey. Neither party moves, no one draws breath. Both wait for the other to put an end to this standstill.

“Alucard?” Sypha murmurs. She can barely believe it herself, but she does recognize it as his silhouette. Despite her confidence, something isn’t right. His smooth hair doesn’t sway with every subtle movement like the soft linen nightgown he wears every night while his back bends into an uncomfortable posture. Then there are those damn eyes, inescapable. Holding her by the throat and chest, snuffing out her last drop of bravery.

Trevor hears her little whisper and can’t accept it; not when the real doll of Alucard stands behind them.

“Sypha, don’t…”

“It’s us. You don’t have to hide.”

The figure shaped like Alucard takes its first steps. Sypha soon realizes her mistake in reaching out for him. It moves slow at first, deliberately, before tripping on its own jangly, erratic limbs. Except it never tripped, not on accident. It crouches low to the ground, arms dangling in front—an animal on the prowl. The sound of a sword scraping against the floor assaults their senses. Slowly, slowly forward.

Trevor grabs Sypha who in turn grabs Alucard. She holds him close to her chest, feeling his little body tremble more than ever. They don’t speak, fearing whoever their stalker is will follow them to their hiding place. Back through the maze, ducking and weaving until they find a large table flipped onto its side providing adequate cover. They press their backs against the surface and for one merciful moment, believe they’re safe when silence fills the air.

Silence that is short lived. The table creaks; thin splinters and wood dust fall from above as the back of Trevor’s head tickles. Dirtied hair, more brown than yellow, tumbles in front of his face in matted and tangled strands. A face follows, then a body, crawling up and over the table. Its nails have grown long and unkept, stuffed to the brim with dirt as they dig into the wood.

It is Alucard—and yet, it’s not. 

He dresses like their friend, but the sleeves are torn and his immaculate white undershirt is soaked with blood, some fresh, some old. The face would never belong to Alucard either; exposed muscle dances with sparse patches of pale lifeless skin, parts of his mouth are missing, revealing a grimace of fangs partially hidden behind his cascading hair. Arms and legs bend one way then disjoint in another like a spider with half of its limbs ripped off. One hand drags his sword behind, its’ once shining silver rusted black. The wild focus and curiosity are gone from his eyes, now he stares with deep distrust.

Like the doll, someone must have torn him apart then pieced him back together. Poorly. Cruelly.

“Aluc—” His name comes out of Sypha’s lips as an inaudible squeak. Trevor has less difficulty, though his shock is all the more apparent.

“Is that you? What the fuck happened…” 

He reaches for him only to back away when the doppelganger of Alucard lets out a metallic inhuman shriek that forces daggers into their ears. A painful sharpness that takes its time dissipating. 

“I… me… am… me…” The words scratch and claw their way out. He keeps his distance, still but not calm, before the sword drops and a guttural snarl emerges. Lunging forward in a pure feral manner, the doppelganger pins Sypha to the floor after pushing Trevor away. Only Alucard would possess that sort of speed and strength. Trevor doesn’t care about broken bones or how his body burns. He sees the other Alucard bent over Sypha who refuses to fight back because it’s Alucard and remembers his whip.

“Not… me… not… I… me… only… me…”

“I don’t understand what you are saying—”

Another piercing screech and the doppelganger swipes Alucard out of her hands. Why the doll? He’s helpless; even more so as his captor slams him down in a violent repetition while screaming and choking the animated life out of him. The first few stitches begin to unravel. All that hard, careful, loving work meant nothing in the end.

**_“NOT ME! NOT ME! NOT ME!”_ **

Trevor seizes his opportunity. His fist collides with a meaty, bloodsoaked cheek. Pain surges through his knuckles, immediately bruising them—just what Trevor enjoys the most. Blades and whips are all fine, they get the job done well. But nothing will replace the adrenaline and heat of a traditional brawl. Even if it’s against the distorted mirror image of his friend.

“What are you doing?!” Sypha shouts, trying to find where Alucard landed with a soft _plop_.

“If I have to beat some sense into him, I fucking will!”

He knows he should be more careful than that. This being is part of Alucard’s mind; if he acts with such reckless abandon, always so tempting for the Belmonts, he might hurt him further, deeper. Maybe destroy something he cannot live without.

The doppelganger doesn’t give Trevor a chance to think. He charges into his enemy fast, agile, but rabid. Striking him with the same precision as the true Alucard, landing blow after blow upon Trevor in front and behind faster than he can react. Bits and pieces of the laboratory crumble all around them, furthering its own state of destruction. No time to reach for the whip. It’s not enough to simply dodge and block when all sides of his jaw feel dislocated while his abused insides take the brunt of each attack. This is not their first fight in the catacombs of Gresit. Both men on somewhat equal footing, their victories achieved through skill and strategy. This is something primal.

This is what happened when they lost sight of him that night in the midst of so much carnage. This is how Dracula fought his son. No regard for his surroundings and none for his opponent.

Ice shatters against the back of the doppelganger’s head, producing a cry of rage. Sypha hurls another series of blunted spikes, anything to get him away from Trevor. It works as the fake yet so convinced that he’s the real Alucard turns his lacerated face and begins him hungry lunge. Finally, Trevor’s fingers clasp around the whip handle which then wraps around the doppelganger’s neck.

“Go find the other one!” His last words before being pushed backwards into a cabinet. _Find him before I do something I’ll never forgive myself for._ He hopes the glass shards sticking out of his arms and thighs will fall out by themselves as the doppelganger repeats his brutal strategy.

Sypha knows what Trevor means by “the other one”. As much as she wishes she could throw herself into their fight, the doll still hasn’t been found. More opportunities to demonstrate her power and the anger that fuels it shall come. Whatever stalks them out there in the dream castle will make certain of it. She won’t give it the satisfaction of her fear, not like before.

How difficult is it to search for one doll with the unmistakable visage of a dear friend? Apparently very. Sypha crawls atop her belly, avoiding the wreckage born from two men who battle until one stops breathing. The floor grime stains the entire front of her blue robes the further she inches forward. While frustration and panic reach their collective heights, Alucard with all his limbs, buttons, and stitches intact come into view. Sypha nearly screams at him until she sees him struggling with something gigantic—in comparison to him.

“What are you doing—” Crawling closer, she realizes what it is. A simple full body mirror with the corners dirtied. The clearness of her own reflection almost shocks her: blood, bruises, nicks and scratches, miniscule but ugly in numbers. Tangled hair that would snap any comb in two. Sypha wonders what the other part of herself must look like out there.

She doesn’t understand but of course helps Alucard. The doll scurries out of the way and lets Sypha drag the mirror into the open area, keeping a tight grip on either side. “Alucard!”

There’s no telling what this object will do, if anything. Sypha knows even less of what to do when the doppelganger appears and, both palms stretched open, crashes the mirror in his direction. Alucard might have only wanted to help. He couldn’t bear to watch another version of himself rip apart Trevor. If such is the case, why choose something so un-weapon like? When not bludgeoning your enemy or catching them off guard, utterly useless. Trevor gathers himself, a small part of his cheek bleeding and raw after the doppelganger caught the skin between his fangs and ripped it free. 

Silence falls amidst confusion before they realize the cause of this standstill. The doppelganger won’t attack them. He clambers in front of the now broken mirror and sees himself. Touching the glass, touching his scars, his hair, and his horrified eyes.

This creature, this monstrous body, it isn’t him. It isn’t Alucard. But it is. Reflections show us everything we never want to see. The doppelganger cries, long and loud, repulsed and ashamed. He covers his face, backs away, and retreats into a corner, all while weeping “I… me… me… me…” Tears mingle with blood. Each one stings his open wounds more painful than the last.

Trevor and Sypha are at a loss. At first they saw a monster, as would anyone. Can monsters cry? Trevor was always taught the opposite. To cry means to have emotions, to have emotions means to have a soul. What does the soul of the doppelganger look like? Would the doll have a soul as well? Alucard emotes in his own way and had good reason to be terrified of him. Yet the harmless doll was feared as well. His existence threatened the doppelganger’s fragility. It is a complicated matter and they could spend the rest of the dream trying to decipher this portion of Alucard’s psyche. 

“Are you coming?”

Sypha’s voice sounds distant. Before Trevor can ask if she can repeat herself, she’s already by the doppelganger’s side. Even the doll waddles past him and cautiously towards the figure, shaking and hunched over. Trevor glances down at his bloodied knuckles. Sympathy is the biggest guilt tripper of them all, he thinks. 

Ignoring the sharp ache in his hands, he unties the thick sheepskin. It’s gone softer after years of using it for shelter and comfort. Trevor kneels beside the doppelganger who flinches in his presence. Once a wild bird with its wings clipped. There’s not much Trevor can do to ease the pain, so he believes. Draping the blanket over the shoulders of this Alucard seems easy enough.

The doppelganger freezes, unsure how to accept this kindness. He’s done nothing to deserve it in his mind. But the sheepskin is warm; he can cover his marred body completely, sink into it, and vanish so that no more harm comes to anyone else. Not to him and not to these two strangers who suddenly don’t feel like strangers.

Trevor removes the blanket after his uncertainty over the doppelganger’s lack of movement and sound shifts into concern. All that remains is ash, blown away by a subtle breeze. They follow the floating trail, curious where it will go, and find themselves alone in a large empty room, grey as the dispersed pile of ashes.

An open door greets them on the opposite side.


	7. cultivation in abandonment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for brief mentions of weight loss and mild gore. additional links:
> 
> [donations for RAINN](https://rainn.org/donate/)   
>  [donations for the Institute on Violence, Abuse, and Trauma](https://www.ivatcenters.org/donate/)

He was the most perfect being she had ever laid eyes upon.

It’s not saying much, considering Alucard was the only being the fairy had ever laid eyes upon. With hair and eyes that glowed in candlelight, she thought he was the sun—before he introduced her to the sun. What could have happened if she never met this golden giant with skin like soft lamb’s ear leaves and a gaze that suggested both kindness and melancholy? Not anything good, she assumes.

Alucard said he found the fairy’s unhatched egg by the river. Water, a sign of life yet also destruction. Would she be able to swim? More likely she would get carried away by the ever-moving current while her poor wings bend, twist, and break. If she did manage to survive, the worst would be waiting. She’d fly higher than the treetops before a hungry hawk snatches her out of the sky. Or the fairy would make it to the roads and quickly find herself crushed beneath the wheel of a wagon driven by an unassuming, ignorant human.

The outside world offers too much danger for someone of her delicacy. Even so, she’s proud of defending Alucard, especially against those other two giants. She couldn’t understand why he called them “friends”. It made less sense why he wanted her to heal one of them. They were both loud, spoke too fast, smelled terrible, and tried forcing their way into his mind. She hated them on sight.

And here she remains, doing what she can to heal them regardless. Back and forth, endlessly tinkering between either body after she tends to Alucard first, of course. What began as a slight trickle of blood oozing from the corner of the loudest and most foul one’s mouth has grown into cuts, bruises, split lips, and ugly gashes that stain their clothes. Her work is never finished. One wound is dealt with until another appears without warning or causality. She loathes to think about what might be happening within their dream.

In a rare moment of calm, the fairy returns to her perch and rests her chin on both fists, brow furrowed. She could give up. Not in regard to Alucard, the mere thought of betraying him makes her feel vile inside. But the others… What have they done for her? It would be childishly easy to let their wounds fester, unattended to. Why does she take the hardest route? What is stopping her?

Friends. One word that holds the fairy back from acting on selfish impulses. These two oafs prone to constant injury are Alucard’s friends, he planted that notion deep into her tiny frantic head himself. She doesn’t trust or like them, but she will help them if in turn it will help him.

The fairy flitters over to Alucard, still free of the same scars that mar his two _friends._ So quiet and devoid of sudden movements. She’s seen him sleep for one rare night, but she knows how often he tosses and turns, raising his head to gaze panic-stricken into the darkness before laying back down, unable to close his eyes. Fear overwhelms her one-track mind when she looks closer and realizes he might not be breathing. Her impossibly large eyes glaze over with tears. She’ll use every last drop of her magic to bring him back. There is the prospect of it killing her but as long as she dies knowing she saved Alucard just as he saved her.

There’s no need for self-sacrifices. The fairy nestles against his chest and feels it rising then falling. Slight and easily missed by the unfocused eye, but Alucard does draw breath. She can’t allow herself the luxury of relief yet. Not when the embroidered patch is nothing but crumbling ashes, the silver brooch a steaming melted pile, and the doll head blackened over every lumpy curve.

The surviving flames will smother themselves soon enough.

* * *

“Try not to bite your tongue.”

A tall order Sypha asks of Trevor. What remains of his cheek after the doppelganger bit off a sizable chunk burns worse than when he received the scar charting its own path along his left eye. It’s taken all of his strength to not pick at the bleeding wound the same way a child pokes and prods at their skinned knee.

He, Sypha, and Alucard have left the laboratory door far behind, now stopping in a lengthy stone corridor. The drab stained-glass windows that follow them every step of the way are frosted over, revealing an outside—or more accurately an inside—world with grey skies, draping like a wool blanket. It’s brighter than other rooms and hallways, the natural light coupled with a few simple candle chandeliers.

This place with its silence and soft radiance tempts them with an always dangerous, fleeting thought. Hope that the darkest memories are behind.

“Have you done this before?” Trevor sits and leans against the wall, eyes shifting towards Alucard. Attempts to limit his spoken vocabulary cause more pain shooting throughout his mouth. He watches the palm of Sypha’s hand glow like a fireplace poker kept in the flames for too long. This won’t be pleasant.

“Only on myself, not other people. It’s like you always say, there is a first for everything.”

“I don’t always say tha—” Sypha is in no mood to hesitate. She places her hand on his cheek, the heat of her magic steaming upon contact as she cauterizes the wound. An agonized hiss escapes through Trevor’s gritted teeth. The way his head writhes from side to side doesn’t help, but Sypha finishes, her palm cool and bloodless. A peculiar sound follows Trevor’s constant groaning, something she hasn’t heard from him in so long: a laugh.

“This one is going to put all the others to shame.”

The scar Sypha left behind is more garish than she thought. It’s curiously taken the shape of a country that hasn’t yet been discovered and marked down on any maps. In a few years’ time it might be mistaken for an unfortunate birthmark the colour of dull lavender. Sypha has seen every perfect and imperfect surface of Trevor’s skin. She’s known him at his most exposed, his most vulnerable, and he’s right. None of the others can ever hope to outmatch such a morbid trophy.

She can’t partake in his lighthearted moment because she’s tired of scars. The ones gracing her own body, Trevor’s, Alucard’s, even the doppelganger’s. She feels no disgust or revulsion for him, only sadness, pity, and somehow the all too familiar, prickling guilt of being unable to stop it. The same way she felt seeing the new brands of pinkish red along Alucard’s arms and over his chest. Then unexplained, now their secrets revealed.

The pain goes far deeper than either of them could have comprehended. Puppet shows not meant for children, dining rooms filled with rotting meat and maggots, self-hatred manifested into physical form, and the monster of his father, who will never let them leave. How did they not see it? How did she not?

Sypha has known the answer for a while. They never saw because neither of them was paying close attention. Their heads and thoughts off somewhere else, somewhere more self-preserving. Alucard shifts all blame away, claiming they shouldn’t shoulder the guilt because it was never theirs to torment themselves with. His real form made that clear to her as would the doll if he could speak through those little stitches. Sypha knows better.

All that’s left is to chide herself for things she can’t change in the past while making an effort to change things for the future. Yet her confidence is lacking—it won’t let her move forward. Not alone.

“Trevor… how well can you speak?”

“You’re asking me that now?”

A joke; not a particularly funny one. “I just need to ask you something.”

“No guarantees that I’ll have the answer you’re looking for, but I’ll do my best.”

“Are we still doing the right thing?”

Trevor’s response is neither optimistic nor downtrodden. He places it somewhere upon the middle ground. “We won’t know for sure until we wake up.”

_If we wake up_. 

Trevor refrains from tacking on that last bit of doom and gloom, especially when he catches Alucard snuggled comfortably in the groove of his lap. The mismatched eye and arm don’t bother him; even that violent encounter with his doppelganger leaves barely a trace in both a tangible and metaphorical sense. There’s no doubt he’s thinking about that side of his mind. Yet for the first time since Trevor and Sypha found him, the doll looks… content. Alucard’s sterile expression makes it hard to tell but it’s the theory they’ve latched their shaky hopes onto.

None of them are thoroughly healed. It doesn’t matter as they walk down the corridor regardless because there’s no other way. They keep their guard at the ready, disenchanted by the falsely calm atmosphere brought on by the quiet and brightness. Nerves on edge, muscles stiff, and focus attuned. 

Apparently not all that attuned. It takes Trevor a few more steps to realize his pouch feels lighter than it’s supposed to. Sypha’s hood is empty as well. Frantic, he looks behind, to either sides of him, then down. Trevor takes the easiest, deepest breath, his heartbeat slowing to a manageable pace when he finds Alucard trotting along next to his feet. He’s faster than before.

“Come on.” Trevor kneels, offering his hand. “My shoulder’s a good spot to ride.”

He thought he was being nice—nicer than usual—but Alucard turns away his head and keeps walking. Trevor suddenly feels the ice-cold stab of rejection; and after all he’s done for the stubby bastard. _So I’m not good enough for you anymore, eh?_ He’s certain that Alucard will climb up Sypha’s robe and hide out in her hood or smugly place himself on her shoulder. Considering his past attitudes, the latter feels more plausible. Which is why he’s surprised to see the doll give her a passing glance before carrying onwards.

Sypha notices as well. “He seems to be in higher spirits.”

“Or just more confident.”

“You did good work stitching him back up.”

“Well, living and traveling on your own from a young age will turn anyone into their own private tailor.”

Sypha hums amusingly. “Then I suppose it was not necessary for me to go through all that trouble just to get you a new clean tunic and replace that old one.”

“What was wrong with the old one?” 

“Oh, where to begin? Firstly, it was stained with beer and… actually I would rather not think about what else.”

“It had sentimental value.”

“Funny. I thought you were never one for sentimentality.”

“That’s not true. I am a changed man, after all.” Trevor’s energy for this frivolous conversation wears out like a firecracker with a disappointing bang. They’re all acting in the ways they should be; Alucard with his cocky strut, Sypha’s proclivity for playful banter, and how Trevor readily enables her at every turn. It feels right; this is how things should be. Yet it feels alien and strange. He’s waiting for some part of the dream—the monster or another room in the shape of a puzzle—to rear its head and stamp out any sign of levity. 

Speak of the devil and he will appear. Waiting at the end of the corridor is a door like all the rest with a brass circle handle. Sypha pulls it, blinding them with more light. Eyes adjust and they are presented with nothing. There should be the surrounding forest of the castle and manor grounds, yet any evidence of nature is replaced with a painter’s blank canvas in the form of impenetrable mist. Sypha, Trevor, and Alucard step over the threshold, engulfing themselves within the grey. Every noise is smothered until there are none, not the sound of their shoes kicking up dirt and stones. The fog reminds them of those cool autumn mornings but there’s no chill in the air.

Trevor thinks he hears Sypha say something. She must have; he sees her lips moving in subtle ways, talking to herself. Barely a glance in the opposite direction, trying to navigate this troupe down the right path and Trevor almost loses her as she meanders a little too far away.

“We should stay together.” His muffled words don’t match his thoughts. Even he must admit how wandering off seems unavoidable. Time, their human understanding of it, moves much slower out here. There are no landmarks to guide them, only the outlines of their own bodies. So quiet, so aimless, and so alone.

“Sypha? Sypha, where did you go?”

Trevor was being so careful after that first time—wasn’t he? Has the mist clouded his perception as well? 

“Sypha? Where are you? Can you hear me? Say my name if you can.” He mistakes his own echo for her voice. 

As though it were an afterthought, a simple thing to overlook, he hastily remembers to check the downward corner of his eye and see if Alucard is still there. These concerned efforts grow more and more infrequent. He doesn’t mean for this to happen, yet they do. Certain things that have become second-hand nature are now casually slipping his mind. Trevor can barely muster the energy to call out for Sypha. Is he moving forward on his own accord? His head feels bloated, his legs heavier than they should be. Thick as the fog.

The tip of Trevor’s foot catches on something, causing the rest of his limbs to stumble. To stop himself from falling, he scrapes the balls of his fists against the ground. Skin roughens and breaks, bringing back memories of reckless childhood playing outside across stone hard surfaces.

There is no stone or rock to trip upon. He smears his blood and breaks his nails against human bone buried so poorly amongst dry dirt, one would have to be blind in order to pay no attention. Trevor rises on trembling legs as his eyes scour the corrupted earth. Skulls, freshly decomposed mingled with those long abandoned. Evidence of memories, emotions, actions, and pain too numerous for one man to account for. The failed burial site of a haunted grave keeper.

Trevor snaps out of his daze and searches for Alucard. If a hunter usually sturdy on his feet has difficulty walking, then it must be impossible for the doll to traverse this landscape of ghosts. He twists his neck far and aggressively enough to snap it but he can’t find the comforting beacon of a little head of yellow yarn bobbing around. The worst outcome crosses Trevor: the ground swallowed him up. He tripped and fell into a bed of bones, unable to escape, forced to struggle until the jagged edges of each broken limb tore him to ribbons. The monster got what he sought for.

“Sypha! Say something! Alucard! Show me where you are!” Trevor runs. He doesn’t know where, as long as it’s away from this place, away from the shattered bodies and the infectious mist. Screaming until his throat runs dry and every word carves a knife into his vocal cords. 

“Fucking somebody say something!” Another echo in response, distorted but just as desperate.

Trevor has always been alone. He once said that no one was ever lonely in his home at the height of its history, but it was a lie. White, small, and spoken only to offer comfort unto a person he cared about far more than he cared for himself. No child should be expected to shoulder an entire family’s great legacy, yet that’s just what the Belmonts did. It was all he knew during those formative years. Isolation became Trevor’s best asset and his most terrible friend. It whispered in his ear like how demons make their bargains. The further he drifted away from his family to preserve some control over his own life, the dull ache of loneliness hurt all the more.

Trevor Belmont will always be alone—he deserves to be alone until the end of his days. He _enjoys_ being alone. Not as a hero, not as a villain, not even as someone who will one day carve out his own chapter in his family clan. He squandered that chance by leaving Dracula’s death to the far more capable hands of two other people. He’s tasted and basked in the joys of companionship but that too will be swiftly taken from him, if it hasn’t already. Trevor is nothing and once he mercifully dies, he will return to nothingness.

They were right; the priests, the bishops, the tavern crawlers, and the ones who fucked anything with a sizable hole in it. He should have drunk himself to death. Save everyone else the trouble.

His chest tightens; the lump in his throat chokes back his words, though he’s already realized there’s no point in carrying on his incessant screaming. Outward, Trevor is silent. Inward, the voice feeds him more lies that feel like awful truths and very well may hold those truths but he doesn’t want to believe them. If only it didn’t sound like him, then Sypha, then Alucard. 

While failing to quiet his mind, Trevor sees how far he’s wandered off. Still deep in the mist, which now leaches between rows of trees without leaves, yet they provide shelter—or entrapment—blanketing the bone littered ground in false snow. A black forest against stark white. Their trunks are sturdy and thick enough to house carvings that emerge from the bark half constructed. Unfinished, whether due to their maker being unable to finish or unwilling to depict the grim subject matter. Human bodies in different states of anguish, despair, and shame. Wooden hands clenched into fists pull at long wooden hair while others hide their faces. Trevor doesn’t need to see their awful details. Effigies that hold a certain likeness too obvious to deny.

The sight of an unspoilt tree is tempting. There used to be a time when that was all he desired; a place that offered rest, shelter, and isolation. The loneliness woods became his home. Perhaps if Trevor stayed long enough, the roots would wrap around his body and carry him into the ground where no harm could ever be done to him again. Perhaps down there he would find the ashes of his family made anew and finally grant them the gift of his company. 

He wants to go home. Perhaps he’s already home. 

“Trevor!” 

His head raises at the sudden jolt of Sypha’s voice cutting through the dead silence. Being greeted by an irregular sight amongst the repeating landscape is like needles pricking his skin, along the arms and deep in his chest. He’s been sitting on the heels of his feet, palms upturned towards the sky of dark branches for what seemed like an eternity. Trevor never even felt his knees hit the ground. His eyes blink slow then faster once Sypha breaks into a run. The blue of her robes, smothered by the fog, look grey. Closer now and he notices something held against her chest—Alucard.

Three words spill from his mouth like unswallowed water. “Are you real?”

He grabs her outstretched arm, fingers clutching the bone, feeling how much thinner she’s become in recent days. It’s not healthy and Trevor feels a pain in his heart. He remembers how little Sypha’s been eating long before they returned. None of them have been eating the amounts they should.

This surge of emotions and memories brings him to his feet. Yes, she is real. They both are, as is Alucard. To be certain, Trevor pulls Sypha’s body close to his own, tighter than he meant. The doll squishes between their chests but doesn’t make a fuss of it.

“You were gone… I turned around and looked everywhere but you were both gone.” The confession comes out as a sob. Trevor buries his lips in her wild hair, another method of proving her existence. She smells wretched. They both do and he couldn’t care less.

“I’m sorry. Something came over me and it wouldn’t let me snap out of it. Alucard couldn’t walk over the bones, so I—”

“You saw them as well.”

Sypha nods placidly, unperturbed by the initial sight. She’s seen too much already. “There’s a clearing up ahead. We should go.”

Trevor unhands her. Reluctantly.

* * *

When they reach the clearing, their noses are filled with the overpowering stench of fruit gone wrong. They smell the lone tree before they see it, slowly revealing itself from the fog like veins upturned towards the sky. It’s different from the others; not as high but with spindly branches that stretch out just as far. Trevor recognizes it as an apple tree—he also recognizes it as a dying body.

“Because of the rotting fruit,” Sypha says after he tells her.

“No, even healthy trees are known to bear some bad apples.” _The same way a morally strong family tree can bear a bastard and a drunkard._

Barely a scrape of his fingertips along the bark and he knows how close it is to death. He knows these gifts of nature better than other hunters who used them as protection the same way he did. Those that wither and rot after years of neglect are as familiar to Trevor as the stronger trees which grow for another thousand years. He wanted his own tree to live that long. To sprout higher than the manor with more branches for him to climb and fall from. His ship in the leaves, his castle in the sky, his sanctuary made of wood. The one friend he would never lose.

Just as no one was there to care for Trevor after the fire, no one remembered his tree.

“Let’s cut it down. Right at the roots.” It’s not a suggestion from Sypha but rather a firm instruction. She assumes the tree is causing Alucard to suffer with its decay and rot. It should be removed as all dead things poisoning the soil should. Trevor would usually agree with her.

“Wait. Hold on one moment.” He directs Sypha’s attention to the very base of the trunk. “Look at how deep they’ve gone under. If we pull it out or cut it down, we’re guaranteed to cause more damage.”

“Then how do we get rid of it?”

What does one do with something that is hurt? Something that is dying. You care for it. Ease it of any pain so that it may finally know peace.

“Try watering it,” Trevor says. Simple magic for Sypha.

After handing Alucard off, she takes position in front of the tree. Her hands open wide, she conjures a series of small waves and splashes hovering in mid-air. They dance in her palms on a windy day before settling into a circular shape that’s been cut in half. Sypha holds the water like a bowl without any glass and carefully pours it over the trunk. The stream descends over the rough wood, smooth and clear until her hands are emptied.

“It needs more than that.” She repeats the same spell. There are of course other chores, other pains to be mended. The doll tugs at Trevor’s thumb, a way of asking if he could be let down. Once on his feet, Alucard tends to the weeds poisoning the roots, picking them like wildflowers during a pleasant spring midafternoon. He stumbles with a few stubborn ones but manages overall. Trevor searches for what he can do. Some of the bark that looks to be peeling gives him an idea.

He gets to work tearing off strips that dig into his already roughened hands. The skin tender and raw; still he rips the tree down to its barest bone. With each strip of bark discarded, the job grows into a far more demanding one. Trevor huffs and grimaces, blood staining the pink flesh of his palms. Not his own. The tree begins to bleed, reeking of the very body which plops down in pieces at Trevor’s feet. Before they were coarse and sturdy as bark should be, now sopping wet. Yet beneath everything lies something new, something alive and healthy. He keeps digging.

Sypha cracks her stiff fingers. Alucard tosses aside the last of the weeds. Trevor wipes his drenched forehead. They’ve done what they can—more in fact—but the tree, despite its fresh state, requires another charitable act. Even with how much they drowned and cleaned it, no leaves sprout from its branches.

“What happens now?” Trevor asks. Dumbfounded silence then a glance at Alucard as he plants himself at the base. He turns to the others, his button eyes stagnant and unblinking.

“I suppose we wait,” Sypha replies.

Trevor isn’t so convinced by what must be a simple task. They didn’t rest in the dining room, certainly not in the laboratory, nothing about this dream has inspired a moment’s worth of peace. Alucard does appear calm; then again, the fog might have somehow wormed its way into his soft little head. Still, he’d rather not leave them alone while he awkwardly stands off to the side. 

His legs cry out for respite, his mind wants to stop overthinking every small detail. Trevor stares at Alucard, curled up in the folds of Sypha’s robe not out of fear, but as a way of telling them it’s alright. They can rest. He might have the right idea after all. There’s a sigh of defeat, then acceptance. Or is it relief? Trevor joins them under the tree, to which Sypha immediately shifts her position to properly cuddle against his breasts. It was always her favourite place to remain close to him. There she could feel the broadness of his chest, the warmth of his skin, and the steady, calming rhythm of his heart. Sleep almost entices Sypha until she realizes the absolute irony of that thought.

Trevor prefers this position as well. He savours the closeness of it, despite their clothes still swimming in blood and filth. That way he knows they’re both always with him. He won’t lose them again.

“You need to eat better,” he murmurs into Sypha’s neck. It takes her awhile to answer, wondering if they should use this moment for some well-deserved silence.

“What makes you say that?”

“I can feel your rib cage poking through your skin.”

Sypha’s fingertips graze along where Trevor keeps his. At least he’s not lying. “My appetite isn’t what it used to be.”

“I’m getting worried.”

“You are one to talk. How many times must I tell you that a pint of ale does not count as a meal?” Trevor lets out a sardonic chuckle; Sypha never fully understood how much she missed hearing that sound. “When we wake up, I promise to have a proper meal as long as you do as well.”

No more ifs, only whens from now on. They could use a bit of optimism and not think it so foolish. “Some roast chicken… or something fancier.”

“Like what?”

“Roast duck. I remember the Belmont cook feeding me roast swan at one point.”

“Swans, peacocks, ducks, are there any birds that have not been turned into a gaudy meal by nobility?”

“They all taste the same anyway.”

“I would like to have an entire platter of figs and cheeses I’ve never heard the names of.”

Trevor smiles. “You can have whatever you want. Alucard might have to make a few dishes for us, though.”

“Are you saying he’s a better cook than me?”

“Better than either of us. With the size of that kitchen and pantry, he’d have to be. Not that I don’t enjoy your leeks and bitter greens cooked within an inch of their lives.”

Sypha pouts in his face. “If I had the right ingredients, I could make us gazpacho like my abuela did for me.”

“Isn’t that a cold soup? I prefer something warm like Yemenite matzo balls.”

“It’s perfect for this time of year when the days are too hot. And you said I could have anything I wanted.” Sypha receives a kiss on the tip of her nose in response; she’ll take that as a yes. The levity of this moment is interrupted by a somber revelation just as her hand brushes Alucard’s yarn hair.

“What if we want to travel again?”

Though she doesn’t speak the rest of her question, Trevor knows what she really means to say. He answers with the same conviction as when he gave away his ancestral home to hopefully save one man from grief and lack of sanity. “We’ll take him with us this time.”

“Do you think he’ll want to come?”

“He might deny the offer, obviously. But anything to get him out of that dreadful place.”

Sypha agrees, though like the careful process concerning the dream spell, she won’t force Alucard into something he doesn’t put his full heart into. “What if we helped clean things up… in the castle and the manor. We could grow a garden somewhere.”

Seconds after she says it, Sypha quickly wishes she could take everything back. No matter how much they “pretty up” either structure, the castle will always serve as a looming reminder in the backs of their minds. As plain as the faded bloodstains seeping into the dirt outside the entrance steps. Yet she hopes Alucard is still listening. Maybe his opinion will be different.

With this hope, Sypha looks up and is greeted by a wondrous sight. “Trevor. Trevor!”

Shaking his arm to stop him from dozing off, she points at the overhead branches. In place of barren twigs are bright green leaves and red apples filling with juice while they watch. Rounder they grow until one by one they drop, making room for more greenery. Alucard jumps out of Sypha’s lap and runs beneath a particularly fruitful branch, failing to dodge its spoils as a thankfully small one descends directly atop his head. Trevor and Sypha (mostly Sypha) try not to laugh.

Braving the onslaught of apples, he balances two in his arms before delivering them. There’s no dread or disgust, unlike the dining hall’s offerings. Tapping their apples together like pints of beer, Trevor and Sypha bite into the crisp, juicy outer layer. Both consume slowly, savouring the fresh cool taste.

“Does whatever we eat in the dream end up in our real stomachs?” Trevor asks with a mouthful.

“I wouldn’t think too hard about it.”

The apples are eaten down to their cores and the fog begins to thin, unmasking the true nature of the forest. It was the same as the ones that came before: a room with four walls, a ceiling, and floor. Nothing more than an empty box. The tree is gone, reduced to an old painting that’s begun to peel. Trevor and Sypha stand abruptly to take in the scene of a faded yet pleasant courtyard in soft blue watercolour hues hosting a frugal apple tree. There was never an outside, yet they walked for miles.

The sight of a door quells their confusion. A generously uncomplicated exit into more unknowns.


	8. rebirth of the firstborn monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for gore and brief mentions of past trauma. additional links:
> 
> [donations for RAINN](https://rainn.org/donate/)   
>  [donations for the Institute on Violence, Abuse, and Trauma](https://www.ivatcenters.org/donate/)

They cast this spell to better know their friend. Not to outright cure his mind but instead to understand his pain so that he may become the cold spot in the room no more. There are answers to the outbursts, the depressive states, and the deliberate avoidance of scars still too fresh, but those also come with more questions. Namely, what awaits them across the threshold of yet another closed door? What riddles and demons must they confront lest they fester and poison, unattended to?

Beyond the painted door, nothing. Upon first glance. A box covered in abstract tapestries of ornate patterns threaded in muted colours. Each corner hosts a thin candelabra with three sticks, three little halos of fire to provide what little light they can muster. Behind, the door leading into the fake courtyard is shut, its handle seemingly vanished while their backs were turned. Ahead, the second untouched door waits patiently. Trevor and Sypha are drawn to the keyhole, not the peculiar oval imprint which surrounds it.

Something else begs their attention: a carved table made from the richest mahogany wood with an ajar drawer. Trevor opens it and they find an assortment of keys the likes neither of them have seen before. There’s the usual crop—brass, metal, and copper—yet it’s the gold and jeweled ones that make Sypha’s eyes sparkle. Humble and plain are drowned out by the more complicated and delicate pieces. Heavy toppled upon light, large outshining small. Where does one start?

Trevor says what they’re both thinking. “Any ideas?”

Admittedly, no. None that Sypha can feel confident with. “Let’s start with ones that are the same size and material as the keyhole.”

So begins their search to find the needle in a drawer of keys. A simple little thing made from dark brass is their only guiding point. One by one they force each key through the hole, scraping and clunking against the metal. If by chance they find one that does fit, it refuses to budge. Trevor tries turning a few with such brute force, calling them everything from shit sticks to goat fuckers. To no one’s surprise (not even his own), the designs leave inflamed marks on his roughened palm as revenge. He and Sypha toss aside dozens of keys, yet they might as well have gone through thousands and there are still more.

“Any other ideas?” Trevor asks again.

Sypha rests her elbows on the table surface and holds both sides of her aching head. “We do not have time for this.”

While pushing her mind to think of a better plan, she notices Alucard curiously walking underneath the table. He looks up and points. Sypha follows his silent directions, pulling Trevor with her as she kneels down. The two nearly laugh in exhausted relief at what they find on the bottom: a small latch that opens another compartment, like a cheeky trick crafted by some inventive carpenter meant for anyone with secrets to hide. Always the most obvious solutions are the easiest to forget.

“Clever,” Trevor reluctantly mumbles as a gold locket and chain drops into his hand.

Inside holds the true surprise: a finely detailed sketch of Dracula depicted in a way that no Belmont or any other hunter would ever portray him as. This is no monster or dark scourge of humanity but a father and husband. An extraordinary man in extraordinary circumstances trying to live ordinarily. It shocks Trevor and Sypha as much as anything else they’ve seen in this dream.

“Was this yours?” He asks Alucard who shakes his head. Unless Dracula was so narcissistic as to keep such an item, there is only one other plausible option. “Your mother?”

They take Alucard’s lack of movement while his large button eyes stare up at them as a positive response. The longer Sypha examines the locket sketch with a careful gaze, the deeper she recalls a certain memory. Something she and Trevor admittedly brushed off during the initial moment.

“When we met up with him inside that old house back in Gresit, the one my family used as shelter, do you remember seeing anything in the dirt?”

“Like what?”

“Drawings. Some of them were scrubbed clean before we arrived, but you could still see a few of the lines. I did not think much of it since it’s what anyone would do when they are bored and waiting, but they looked detailed. Like this sketch right here.”

“... I might have noticed something like that.”

“Alucard, did you make this locket for Lisa?” Another shake of his stitched head before pointing to the drawing and nothing else.

“So, he must have only drawn the portrait then Dracula fashioned the actual necklace himself.” Trevor turns to the doll. “Wallachia’s own Botticelli and Da Vinci, eh?”

“They gifted her the locket together… father and son...” Sudden realization follows contemplation and speculation. “Wait! Give it to me.” Outlining the shape of the keyhole with her fingertip, Sypha places the locket inside the oval imprint. Nothing else could be a more perfect fit. They hear a series of clicking sounds before the door opens slightly. When inside a dream, one must think like the dream thus a key is not a key.

The next area surprises Trevor and Sypha with its sheer length, more a corridor than a room. They walk forward, shoes tapping against the smooth floor tiles. Along the vaulted ceiling are painted stars against a dark blue sky, bringing to mind similarities with the childhood bedchamber—a place they’d rather forget but know fully well they cannot and should not. The air of this room is different, however. Grand yet sheltered, tightly packed while displaying pedestals with items encased and floating in glass cylinders. Another shared trait with another past trauma.

Unlike the mutilated laboratory with its grotesque cabinet of curiosities, these objects are pleasant. Things one would find if they took a glimpse into the personalized timeline of a sheltered half vampire princely bastard. Trevor finds a well-loved toy, a hairbow with a gemstone, and Alucard’s needle-thin sword.

“It’s like a museum of someone’s life.” Trevor can’t help but snort. _That’s just what he said about the Hold._

“But look.” Sypha stands on the opposite side, looking over a different set of items as she continues down the line. “Some of these don’t belong to him. There’s my brooch and a book from your family’s archive.”

Trevor takes her place and sees for himself just how right she is. Even his broken sword from their first fight somehow made its way into its own container.

“Maybe they’re memories. All of them.”

Before Sypha can hear his assumptions, she’s already at the end of the room facing a lavish canopy bed with sheer curtains on every side yet no headboard. Similar to the one they’ve slept in for the past week and where Alucard refuses to lay. Moving aside the lace, they see a deep imprint embedded in the lush mattress and blankets. Their eyes follow the outline and they make out a human body curled in on itself. Either this bed has been used quite often or it’s waiting for someone. Preparing itself for one who deserves a moment’s rest.

“Trevor…” Sypha whispers, cautious but not afraid. She points to one corner then they see the hunched over form desperately shielding their face and head, hiding themselves from prying eyes. Inching closer, they hear erratic shortened breaths. Not the cries of one who sheds tears—not yet. Those will come soon enough.

A stone cracks under Trevor’s boot, causing the figure to look up. He reveals his mangled face and blood caked locks of hair. They never thought they would see him again. That the horrors of the laboratory were dealt with.

“It’s alright,” Sypha calls out softly. “You can trust us… Alucard.” She hesitates on his name before realizing it might be the very thing that pulls him out of the shadows and into their presence.

Trevor joins in when the doppelganger doesn’t move. “Come on. I won’t fight you. Nothing here is gonna hurt you.”

It doesn’t feel right coaxing him out the way they would for a frightened creature underneath a bush. After staring down at his shaking ravaged hands, the doppelganger emerges into the light and they see the true extent of his damaged body. Limbs bent out of place, open wounds and sores soaking his shirt with blood, which must have been some shade of white long ago—a living corpse that’s been freshly half-skinned. His lipless mouth and exposed fangs show an expression not of anger but of pain and remorse. 

Sypha’s commune once offered assistance to members of a leper colony. She tended to their bandaged bodies dutifully, no flinching or gagging. “Why do you not turn away from my visage in disgust, child?” They asked. She thought the answer was obvious: they were human, same as her and same as the other Speakers.

Neither one backs away from the doppelganger with a grimace. If Trevor or Sypha did that, they would think themselves as horrid people. Sypha would be forgoing everything she ever learned from her people. Trevor would be rendering all of his current progress as undeniably moot. But this isn’t as easy as sewing new eyes and limbs onto a doll. Nothing is. They cannot put his entire body back together in the right places; Sypha doesn’t know if magic or the dream will allow her. What they can do is give the doppelganger a sense of peace. 

They remember the bed and how it needs an occupant. Just as friends should, they guide him onto the soft mattress surrounded by blankets. Beyond the initial hesitation, beyond his own self-doubt, the doppelganger trusts them. He sits, lifting his legs, and nestles into the imprint. Trevor and Sypha say nothing so as not to disturb his sleep.

Alucard pushes through their legs, standing at the base of the bed, his tiny stature far more confident than before. He begins his climb by holding onto the overhanging sheets with a tight grip. Sypha instinctively steps forward to help but is held back by Trevor. Let him do this himself, he seems to tell her. They watch as the doll makes it to the top and squeezes under the doppelganger’s arm. Holding their breaths, waiting to see what he will do to the other side of himself.

A moment passes and the doppelganger pulls Alucard closer. He doesn’t wake, doesn’t open his eyes, too exhausted to achieve anything more. The doll settles in; two opposing parts of one mind reconcile. 

This is where the dream ends. This is where all three wake up in the sanctuary of the underground library. This is where endless staircases and rooms stitched from memories and trauma fade away. This is what Trevor and Sypha hope for.

This is not what happens next.

A shadow looms behind the canopy bed that grows with every agonizing second. The walls of the room shake, spilling crumbs of stone like hard rain. Anymore and the ceiling might crush those unfortunate or foolish enough to not turn and run.

Trevor and Sypha have never been ones for retreat, despite knowing they should. Despite recognizing the yellow eyes, skin the colour of death, and wings that could undo both of the with a single unfurl. This gargoyle of absolute darkness where no hope can be found in its presence.

Sypha feels the pounding sides of her head tighten around her brain as though her life is already deep inside the monster’s claws once again. She glances at Trevor but sees the same expression that paints her face in shocked resignation. The realization that they cannot act. Not to flee, not to reach for Alucard and his doppelganger, not even to hide. No matter what decision they make, its eyes will follow them every step of the way. They will not be able to outrun it this time.

The demon of Alucard’s dream growls low, reaching into the very core of hurtful rage and finally emerges with a deafening screech. Their chests cry out as audible daggers take root; a pain so sharp they think they taste blood in their mouths. More of the room crumbles as the monster exacts its own form of justice. Claws wreck terrible havoc, creating an endless void in the wake of destruction. Each memory item in its chamber falls and continues to fall, smaller and smaller, lost forever. Trevor and Sypha can barely keep their footing. There is nowhere to run.

Alucard has no other choice but to abandon the other half of himself and jump from the bed onto a stable piece of the room that hasn’t fallen away. The doppelganger, having woken up, grips the mattress unable to follow the doll who carries his visage. Seeing how helpless he’s become in this sudden chaos; Trevor finds the courage to inch forward and reach for him. Like the sheepskin given out of sympathy and kindness, this seems foreign to the doppelganger. He doubts for too long. When his own hand reaches out, the monster pulls him into the emptiness. 

“NO!”

His fearful face contorts but Trevor never hears him scream. He’s gone before he can hear anything.

There’s no time to mourn. They have to be smart and save what they can. Joining Sypha atop one of the last pieces of the room, they search for Alucard. He’s fallen behind but with a simple flick of her fingers, Sypha propels him into their arms, controlled by a gust of wind.

“We have to get away from it!” Trevor shouts over the carnage.

“How?! Everything is almost gone!”

“Use whatever’s left as platforms!”

They try; neither one can say they didn’t. But clambering onto broken cobblestone and mortar while the world around them descends into the void doesn’t bring them a happy ending. Sypha presses Alucard against her chest, then Trevor grabs her hand. With the other, he does the first thing he’s been taught to do and cracks the whip until it wraps around an outsticking piece of rubble.

No amount of praying or brute strength helps in keeping them afloat. The rock cracks, unconcerned for the lives of two humans and a doll. Trevor holds Sypha. Sypha holds Alucard. They fall, further and further.

Only hell knows where they will land.

* * *

Down is up, up is down. The three companions make their descent and reach their end by being spat out of the black pool. Thick, muddied water lazily ripples as each one is thrust upwards. Skin bruises in the ugliest colour upon landing. Lucky to still be alive, luckier that they are still together. Trevor fills his lungs with as much stagnant air as he can and takes his time in steadying himself. While slow, Sypha is the first to stand—a determined yet useless feat. One glance at the sight around them and she might as well lower herself back onto her knees. Longer she stares, the greater the temptation grows.

“We’re back where we started.”

Trevor doesn’t believe her at first. They just survived a horrible ordeal; therefore, their perceptions haven’t settled yet. Until he looks up into an infinite tower of incomprehensible architecture. Bridges and staircases that greedily devour each other in a dizzying maze. The very place they should have abandoned long ago.

Here they cower at the absolute bottom. Nothing but a single set of steps to lead them up.

The words stumble out through Trevor’s teeth, same as his legs struggle to hold his body mass. “That’s not possible… how did this happen?”

He turns to Alucard. The doll has no verbal answer but maybe he can lead the way. Always their little guide in this castle of his own creation. Trevor and Sypha wait, aching to follow him wherever he will take them. Alucard cannot move, reduced to the trembling state they first found him in. Confused, unsure, and doubtful.

“I-it’s alright.” Sypha lies out of compassion. Anything to maintain their spirits, which weigh them down so low. “Let’s follow these stairs and see where we are.”

Trevor bites his dry tongue. The previous fake taste of blood becomes real as a small trickle of copper slides down. He wants to grab Sypha by her thin shoulders and tell her to look around. They both already know where they are. All of their progression, lost. All of that suffering for nothing. Something tells him to wait; some part far more logical than the rest of himself. Wait and see what happens because things are not what they seem. Take nothing in this dream as it is.

Their climb up the only accessible walkway is a short one. The malevolent force that destroyed everything, obsessed with the death of hope, has found them. It crawls along an upside-down staircase before flipping right side up and dropping down to confront its long sought-out prey. Trevor mentions nothing, not a whisper nor outburst, but he sees what the monster did. Blood drips from its fangs and talons—blood that was not there before.

An image clouded by red hot anger appears before Trevor. A vision of the doppelganger’s last moments, teetering on the tentative edge of an empty void, clambering for his hand. 

“Enough…” He spits. “Enough of this.”

The rough tone of Trevor’s voice signals an equally, if not more furious Sypha to move Alucard where he’ll be safe. She tucks the doll behind a corner, unaware that he’s been tugging on her robe all this time trying to make her stay and rejoins Trevor. He continues his ultimatum before the storm.

“We’re not going to run. You want us so badly. Here we are. Try it. Rip us to pieces. Bash our brains in. Do whatever the hell you want! But fight us head on right now and watch as we spill your fucking guts out like your son did!”

Sypha’s magic is faster than the creature’s guttural roar. Erecting two ice shields that move with their fighter, Trevor prepares his whip and manages to run ahead while massive claws smash down. Sypha holds her ground, pushing back the beast as her shield takes the worst attacks. She hears Trevor crack the whip repeatedly, leaving wide open lacerations along the thick-skinned body. It pays him no attention. He tries again, harder, angrier.

“Come on! Look over here! Move your ass, you ugly fuck!”

At last, the monster breaks his ice shield and catches the whip. Like swatting away a persistent fly, it swings Trevor towards the surrounding columns, hoping his entire skeleton will shatter upon collision.

“Sypha now!”

“Right!” The ice begins to thin, allowing the monster to smash it into pieces using its other hand. Precisely what Sypha wants. Repurposing the shards as blades, she stakes every exposed inch including one eye that bursts into a bloody empty socket when pierced. 

While the beast is distracted, its grip on the whip slipping, Trevor seizes his chance. He thanks his agile nature along with the overarching walls that make for ideal platforms. Planting his feet firmly against one surface, he pushes off and maneuvers himself onto the monster’s back. A risk well paid, despite the near snapping of his neck.

It’s their turn for violence driven by the heat of rage. They show their half-blinded enemy just how much more they can bleed it dry. Trevor chokes out its life with the whip while manically driving a boot knife into its ribcage. Sypha has her own weapon; positioning her arms in a circular motion, she fashions two crescent moon blades connected by a staff, all made from the same ice that juts out of the monster’s face. They slash at its leg tendons, snapping them like tightly wound rope. When Dracula’s true form doesn’t let her finish, Sypha dodges its quick yet clumsy blows before cutting its thick tail.

One eye gone, two ankles rendered obsolete, strangled, and bleeding out—yet the monster stands tall. It weakens either parasite with a defiant scream before shaking them off. Their backs hit a wall some distance away. A few ribs break, along with some other lesser bones, but as long as they can still move and no vital organs are fatally poked, they can keep fighting. One cough full of blood followed by a second and third are nothing to them.

“Trevor, wait! Stop, stop, don’t go yet!”

Sypha runs to the safe corner where they left Alucard before he can ask questions—or rather, before he can shout why. A good thing he didn’t. Trevor understands the sudden urgency. He trails after Sypha, assessing the damage done against the doll though it hurts him to see. Her hands shake as she holds up what little is left. Without reason, Alucard has reverted to the same wrecked state they thought they freed him from. One eye is gone, the other hanging by a thread. His tears and exposed wool have returned. He can barely stand or wave his contorted arms.

“No… this should not be happening,” Sypha chokes. “We kept him out of harm’s way, why did this happen?”

Trevor’s fingers hover around the doll’s heavy head, too afraid to touch him else he could fall apart. He frantically searches for answers until he’s brought back to the monster stumbling about with its own injuries. The gashes, the missing eye, the snapped ligaments—his thoughts take him to a place he never wanted to see.

“Alucard was fine before we started fighting… now look at him.” Trevor speaks to Sypha but he might as well be talking to himself.

“What are you saying? Trevor, we have to leave right now. We have to fix him again—”

“Sypha, fixing the doll is not going to change anything at this point. That monster is the cause of everything. If we help it like we’ve been doing this whole time, Alucard can finally wake up. We can all wake up.”

“How the hell do we help it?”

“Because it’s not Dracula. Those wounds on its body, they match Alucard’s. It’s not the memory of his father that’s been haunting him.”

Sypha lowers the doll. She’s always been an advocate of truth, but she also hates it, especially when it stings worse than a lie or false assumption. If what Trevor suggests is correct, she should have recognized the signs long before this encounter. Even longer before this dream. The way Alucard lashed out, kept his eyes narrowed as if constantly in suspicion, and resorted to disturbing methods in order to frighten all other living beings away from the castle grounds. 

He inherited more from his father than just an incredibly rare biological strain of vampiric nature. An entire transfigured form in the shape of death’s harbinger. 

“Those eyes… there was nothing but darkness and loathing. He wanted me gone no matter what he had to do. But why would Alucard want to destroy the doppelganger? Why a part of himself?”

“That creature hates everything, Sypha. Outward and inward.”

Questions and theories mean nothing when Sypha finds something critical they missed while conversing. When the dream began, they tried protecting Alucard. Harder than their efforts in Gresit or Lindenfield, forgetting their reckless ways in favour of caution and thought before action. No more harm would come to him.

It’s happened again.

Sypha grinds her teeth, filled with inner hatred at her ignorance, and runs in front of the creature. Not again. Nothing is written in stone. She won’t accept anything yet. A name forces its way out, the taste rancid but she must keep it in her mouth.

“Alucard!”

The monster stares her down. Hands raised, devoid of magic while blood, dirt, and tears paint a sullen picture on Sypha’s cheeks. “I’m sorry… I am so sorry, Alucard. I’m sorry this happened to you and I’m sorry we hurt you this way. We should have known. We should have known everything from the beginning, but we didn’t. We could not see what was in front of our eyes. But we can still help you. I know you must hate us but please let us help. You shouldn’t hate yourself so much. Please…”

It lets out a wounded predator’s cry, spitting globs of blood and saliva from its fangs. With no interest in Sypha’s peaceful offer, the creature slams her against a column. Trevor screams and rushes to her side. The grimace on her ruined face is painful, but she pushes him away.

“Talk to him.”

Trevor Belmont knows what it means to be alone. Many times, it was better for him. He can’t be alone now. He needs Sypha’s wisdom and her optimism; desires Alucard’s dry wit and blunt motivation. He will have that and more when he brings this dream to an end.

“Alucard. Alucard, look at me!” Trevor drops the whip and knife. He has the beast’s attention. “I know you’re angry. I know how much you’ve been suffering.”

It settles into a poised stance, ready to strike, but never does. Trevor takes one step forward.

“You did something terrible, but it’s because something terrible happened to you. You were already angry and hurting and it felt like the only thing to do. It was wrong. Everything was wrong.”

Deep, glottal noises that signal a possible attack until those growls shape themselves into moans and whimpers. Its remaining eye glazes over as Trevor places a hand near its jaw like soothing an irate dog. Sypha does the same on its opposite side, having found the strength to stand. Her presence gives him what he needs. Tears mix with blood as they hold Alucard’s weeping face.

“You have a right to your anger and pain. But none of it makes you a monster.”

Thick with despair and bloodshed, the air lightens at last as silence fills this small alcove of the infinite castle corridors. Each hand belonging to Trevor and Sypha is gentle atop the creature’s snout; the final piece to Alucard’s psyche. It collapses after a final huff seeps past its clenched teeth. The dream is not through with them.

They inspect the unconscious body with haste, baffled at first. Trevor sees how much its stomach bulges. Something that was not there before has made its way inside. A legend older than his own family tree comes to mind, easy as a real memory.

_There once lived a woodsman and his wife in the forest, far from the busy towns and villages. Despite this isolation, they were happy. Their love was as deep as the very woods they inhabited. One night during a full moon, the woodsman went missing. A few days passed and neighbouring farmers found their livestock torn to pieces. Not one animal left alive. The villagers failed to act, and so human bodies soon replaced the dead cows, horses, pigs, and goats. Some families couldn’t even recognize their own kin when their remains were discovered._

“Sypha, help me with this.” Trevor grabs his discarded knife while she holds up the creature’s enlarged belly. He assures himself it’s no different from gutting a cow or deer ripe for slaughter.

_The wife was accused of the murders, including that of her husband. They called her ripper, servant of the devil, and witch. She however knew the truth. Off into the woods she traveled, searching for the beast before another fell victim to its rampages. Eventually, she stumbled upon an enormous black wolf lying on its side. It did not notice her, for it had fallen into a slumber, drunk from its spoils._

The first cut is simple. The others give him more trouble as a cascade of thick, puss-like liquid splatters along the floor. One does not swim in blood like this. They drown in it.

_With a knife, she cut open the wolf’s stomach and pulled out her husband. She placed a hand on his chest and felt herself reduced to tears, relieved that he was alive. The woodsman, his wife, and the villages were never terrorized by another werewolf for as long as they lived._

Sypha grudgingly holds either side, giving Trevor as large of an opening. No one is there to witness the doll’s own metamorphosis. How he willingly transforms into a flattened husk emptied of all wool. He wants this.

“I’ve got him!”

Some monsters were human once. Yet Trevor was entirely caught up in the shallow business of his family’s legacy that he often forgot about the morals of his childhood bedtime stories. Now they prove themselves useful in darker times. Like a fisherman pulling in his catch of the day, Trevor drags the naked body of Alucard out of the belly of the beast, blanketed in mucus and sloppy raw meat. His expression is soft and peaceful, unsettlingly so.

“He’s alive. I can feel him breathing.” He shouldn’t have spoken so soon. Alucard hangs limp in Trevor’s arms, his heartbeat barely a tap in his broad chest. Sypha wipes each strand of soaking hair out of his placid face and closed eyes. It’s all she knows what to do. The only help she can afford to give.

“Don’t do this. Don’t do this, you bastard. You’re supposed to wake up now. Alucard, you have to wake up. Please wake up…”

* * *

She’s been watching the last of the flames for what feels like her entire life—and most fairies rarely live for so long. Chin resting atop her bent knees, holding them close to her chest. Tapping her feet in synchronized rhythm offered some amusement, though she had to stop when a rogue splinter lodged itself between her toes. She could sing but what good is musical accompaniment if she doesn’t have an audience to hear her symphonies?

Three flames left, then two, then one. It’s weaker than the rest; place a candle by its side and the fire wouldn’t be strong enough to light the wick. Is it morning? Has the sun come up? Are the skies clear and the outside air warm with summer heat? The fairy could find answers to her own questions but that would involve leaving Alucard. She lowers her bottom back onto the little perch she carved out just for this night. Her master has to see the sun as well; she can’t possibly leave him and keep the gifts of early morning all to herself. Not while he still sleeps.

The fire dies until it’s nothing but an orange ember surrounded by ash white. Eyes remain closed, including Alucard’s. The fairy curls into a ball made from her body. No one is awake but they should be. The flames are gone, the items burned to oblivion. They have to wake up. She can’t be abandoned so soon in her life. What is happening inside the dream? What could be so impossible or so dire to keep them in that awful unseen world?

Smoke replaces fire, rising up in a thin grey stream.

Trevor jolts forward shortly before Sypha does the same. Their lungs gasp for air, loud and overwhelmed, startling the fairy into a near coma. Her shock is only outweighed by the offense of neither one paying any concern towards the healed scars, bruises, and burns after all the trouble she went through. They’ll thank her once their bodies manage to calm and trick themselves into treating this as nothing but the aftermath of an ordinary nightmare. Their first duty before the sleep-induced haze disappears from their vision is Alucard.

His eyes are open but there is no consciousness behind them. He struggles for breath, convulsing and reaching for something far away, something that will ground him in the present moment. The dream won’t let him go, not that easily as both halves of himself remain stuck in different realities. Golden irises roll back until all Trevor and Sypha can see are the bloodshot whites of his eyes. They press their palms against his burning cheeks while Sypha keeps her voice low and soft, guiding him out of his own dream.

“Breathe, Alucard. Just breathe. It’s over now, Trevor and I are right here. You are alright. Breathe… that’s it, that’s right. Keep breathing. Slowly, slowly.”

Alucard shuts his eyes before opening them, having returned to normal. They grow bright and wide with tears that he doesn’t bother stopping as they trickle down the corners. A careful hand behind his head, Trevor and Sypha raise him into a sitting position. He reeks of sweat; they all do.

“Can you hear us? Can you see us?”

“... I can hear you.” His words are half sobs. “I can see you.”

There’s nothing left but to hold each other, their boots ruining the meticulously drawn chalk symbol on the floor. They don’t need it anymore. The fairy encircles them in the air above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the story isn't finished just yet. we've still got one more chapter to go.....


	9. seeds for our future selves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for suggestive themes, body horror, and discussions of past trauma. additional links:  
>    
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It’s strange seeing him like this. So normal, without yarn for hair, half torn skin bleeding from every orifice, or hateful inhuman irises turned mournful. Just some out of place hairs and a few light dark circles under his eyes to show for it—normal and ordinary for anyone waking up from a nightmare.

“I suppose you both know everything now.”

Alucard sits with his legs bent, a blanket draped over his shoulders and head, both kept low. Trevor and Sypha have their own, used more to wipe their drenched while Alucard’s is for security. Or a shield. The fairy watches from her perch, at the ready should more stress befall her keeper. Fingernails rake at her arms as she crosses them over her knees. It’s over, she says to herself with a tremble of her wings. What more could you do to him?

The Hold doesn’t offer much in terms of calm yet harmfully indulgent drinks, much to a certain someone’s disappointment. A few neglected tea leaves, shriveled up over many months, swimming in boiled water. The reason why anyone would drink this tasteless beverage during summer (or any season, really) escapes Trevor.

He doesn’t whine, not after he finishes his first portion whilst all three talk in hushed tones. Conversation makes dry, sour mouths even dryer. They carry on attentively, never pushing Alucard whenever he goes quiet and his gaze wanders off before returning to the present.

“My apologies.” He’s been saying that quite often. “This is all rather… unusual for me.”

“In what way?” Trevor asks. Sypha touches his hand and murmurs his name, reminding him that Alucard has no obligation to answer.

“It’s alright, Sypha.” He stares down at the small ripples in his teacup. “This is simply a new feeling. I’m not used to having not one, but two people know so many intimate things about myself. To have those thoughts and memories opened up then spilled out in the most literal sense. I’ve never done that with anyone, not to this extent. Not even with my mother and father.”

This is why he holds the blanket so tightly. No longer will he be able to easily close himself off from outside forces like he used to. This was his decision; he wanted Trevor and Sypha to know. It wasn’t fair to leave them in darkness while they offered their hands. But was any of this fair to him? Was it really the right thing to do? Is this the path he needs to take, or will he regret it like others in the past? 

Alucard grows more pained; subtly so, but Trevor and Sypha notice it. “I hurt you both inside the dream…”

“Do not blame yourself,” Sypha says, firm but gentle. “There were things within the dream you had no control over. And look—we’re still here. We’re alive and made it out of there because of your guidance. We would have been lost without you.”

“I did everything I could. Even in that… form.” One hand lets go of the cup. He watches in a slight daze as his fingers move, clenching into a fist then extending. Not a doll’s hand or a monster’s, just human flesh.

Trevor is next to speak up. He’s retained his own theories concerning this subject since traversing the dream, mulling over and adding the further they delved like an amateur philosopher. Right now, he’s not in the mood for speculation. He’d rather hear the truth from Alucard. “You don’t need to answer, but why did you see yourself as a doll?”

“I’ve dreamt of myself in that way many times before.”

“Because you saw yourself as weak?” Sypha asks, wisely omitting the word “broken”.

“Not always. Did you notice how often I clung to you both? Or how I offered support whenever I could? It’s because I’ve always known dolls and toys to be objects of comfort. Ready to give affection and receive it without shame or embarrassment.”

An image of two dolls, their likenesses so crude and childish yet familiar, brings forth bittersweet memories. Alucard loved then hated them, then realized what he had done and painfully wanted them back—not unlike their human counterparts. Maybe he is speaking too much about this, but he cannot hold back now.

“But dolls are also silly little things. Easily discarded, ignored, or underestimated. That’s how I viewed my ability for open affection: silly. Ridiculous, worthy of ridicule even.”

 _Alone, you can’t hurt anyone, and no one can hurt you._ The words which Trevor once told himself aren’t the same as Alucard’s, though the feelings are. To be vulnerable is to put yourself in danger’s way. It shouldn’t have to be that way. Trevor knows after the revelation took half his life, after outweighing the terrible against the good, and now it’s Alucard’s turn.

“Part of me is going to miss that doll, actually.” His attempt at lightness takes its time settling with the other two. Alucard smiles before Sypha—forced or genuine, it’s difficult to say, even for him.

“He might return the next time I dream… if I can dream again.”

Long bouts of silence have become the norm since their communal awakening. Tea leaves sit at the bottom of their cups, turning the murky water much stronger than either of them pleases. Still, they drink it. When they can’t speak, they drink and stare at everything that resides in the Hold. Everything but themselves.

Trevor gives his tactic another try. “At least we know the spell actually works.”

“Yes, that much is certain.” 

Alucard’s smirk lessens the further he casts his eyes down. He thought it would be alright to talk about the dream, assuming it’s what Trevor and Sypha wanted. There are moments he remembers in detail, though each one distorts itself more than the previous. Whatever Alucard saw and heard first had to go through the doll. That single button eye did him no favours.

But then there are his memories of touch, vivid and vastly outshining the others. Every time Sypha brought him close to her chest or how Trevor fashioned a temporary chariot in his belt pouch. How deftly they held the needle that gave Alucard new appendages and closed his torn chest.

He liked it when they touched him so gently… in the dream. Perhaps only in the dream—yet perhaps not? The fear and uncertainty that Alucard feels regarding this self-imposed taboo outweighs his need to make it possible again.

“You okay?” Trevor asks while Sypha matches his concerned expression. The most basic, common, yet somehow emotional inquiry of any friend is answered with a dry “yes”.

“I’m only tired, that’s all. That’s all.”

* * *

Trevor never kept the closest eye on Alucard during their stay down in the Hold. He thought it best considering the rough first encounter between them (followed by even rougher seconds and thirds). The Belmont would be somewhere amongst the shelves of weapons and occasionally take note of the dhampir’s colourful remarks directed towards him. Remarks Alucard thought no one but himself and Sypha could hear. Trevor took no serious offense. There he goes again. Otherwise, distance was their shared language of choice.

He regrets those moments. To make up for it, atonement for this minor sin turned greater, Trevor’s eyes upon Alucard have been that of a hawk. He’s never watched the dhampir more closely before; the action itself startles him with new admissions about himself.

It started when the two of them alongside Sypha left the underground library and began the trek back to the castle made longer due to the quiet. Each pair of hands full of something whether worn blankets, useful books, or the charred remains of their little individual trinkets stuffed in a bowl. Upon reaching the imposing entrance, Alucard finally spoke.

“Would it be alright if I stayed behind for a while? I will join you inside shortly, I simply need some fresh air.”

“Sure, but you don’t need our permission.” Secretly, they thanked him for asking. Had he not, they would have surely been running throughout the castle wondering where last they left him.

Alucard nodded and watched as his friends entered through the doors. While inside, they congregated to an immediate window, one that gave them an overreaching bird’s eye view of the front grounds. Neither Trevor nor Sypha meant to take on these anxious roles so indiscriminately. They didn’t want to smother him and still don’t. But two strong imaginations conjure twice the terrible thoughts and they dreaded what could have happened if they turned away.

Their fears were put to rest once they saw Alucard sit on the steps, blanket still around his shoulders as he stared into the surrounding forest. Unmoving, ever watchful; a statue of his own making. Was he waiting for someone else to return? Or was it just nervous wariness of other visitors that kept him on those steps?

Alucard began to shudder after some time passed. Distance once again proved detrimental as no one watching through the paned window could clearly tell what was happening. Even so, a person does not tremble because of summer. They tremble because they weep.

Hours later, when the skies paint themselves in hues of red and orange, Trevor thinks about how much he’s seen of Alucard today—and how much he hasn’t. Sypha prepares herself for a night free of spells and mind castles. While she slips into a nightgown, he sits on the edge of the bed, trousers and tunic suffocating him in this heat despite their looseness. A sudden weight hangs off his shoulders; when Sypha embraces him from behind, she puts her entire body into it. Arms around Trevor’s neck, legs clinging onto his hips, and chest pushed against his back, creating a gentle human cage.

“What’s wrong?” She purrs.

Trevor gathers his thoughts in order, his hand on her arm. The way he goes silent in bed, even after lovemaking, and stares into nothing, his brow perpetually furrowed; she’s come to expect this. Aware that his mind is full of things he might not bring to light, she doesn’t rush him. He can speak on his own time.

“It’s about Alucard,” Trevor finally sighs. Sypha nestles her chin in the crook of his neck.

“I understand.”

“We did everything we could, but he was still so… aloof the entire day.”

“No one survives an experience like that and ends up smiling, Trevor. Even if the intention was to make things better.”

He presses his mouth on her skin, not to plant a kiss but to feel her. “I know, I know. That came out wrong. But I can’t help but worry if we missed something in the dream. Another room or item or something we did wrong.” 

The details of dreams always manage to elude memory, yet Trevor tries to recollect the most important doors of Alucard’s inner castle. How exactly he and Sypha arrived remains a blur. First came the bedroom puppetry—nothing will give cause for him to forget. Then they ran into a kitchen? No, dining hall. His other form was in the laboratory but what else was there? Why did they find the doppelganger in that torture chamber? Did he survive as well? But Trevor saw his blood. He saw the blood…

Sypha interrupts his deep thought. “It’s alright if you can’t remember everything right now. We all went to hell and back. It may take us longer to recover and recollect ourselves.”

Trevor huffs. By now he should speak plainly, or at least spill the truth he’s kept locked inside his gut while stupid litte butterflies dance around it mockingly.

“I just… I don’t feel comfortable leaving him alone tonight. Not after that.”

Sypha doesn’t loosen her grip on him as he expected. Her response surprises him most of all. “Then don’t.”

She says it so matter-of-factly and looks at Trevor with that smile which warms his cheeks until they turn the colour of ripe strawberries. When he begins to stammer, she does him a kindness in explaining herself. “You can deny or downplay it as much as you want, Trevor Belmont, but you always want to help others and save the day.”

“You know I don’t like being called a hero.” _Because I’ve never been one; not really._

“And yet I see no reason not to call you that. Alucard’s been alone for long enough.”

“So, you’re fine with this. Shouldn’t you come as well?”

Of course she wants to come. By all accounts, she should. Sypha nearly laughs at the sheer ache she feels. The worry she has for their friend and someone far greater is only paramount to Trevor’s. But this isn’t about her needs or wants.

“I don’t think Alucard is ready for that yet.”

There’s a directness to her tone; it helps Trevor understand her intent better without having to ask. Their relationship has reached a certain peak, one that goes beyond most spoken words. Expressions and the manner in which either one carries their bodies tell each other just as much as an open-faced book. 

She’s right—she’s absolutely right and it hurts, angers him even.

Trevor’s face grows redder, hotter with the desire to tell her one last thing before he walks out. “I’m not abandoning you. I never will. Please don’t ever think that.”

A haughty look not to be taken seriously graces Sypha’s face. She rests her hands on her hips in an exaggerated fashion. “Give me a kiss.”

Trevor of all men is smart enough to know that there are no acceptable whys or buts when Sypha makes a request. Leaning closer, eyes fluttering shut, their lips interlock. Opening then closing, soft but with heart. Sypha raises onto her knees and Trevor’s head with both hands, drawing him deeper into her. When their tender mouths part, all he can manage is a breathless “wow”. She smiles, quite pleased.

“There. Now I know you won’t abandon me. Neither of you will.”

Still Trevor’s cheeks burn while words (the intelligible and coherent sort) elude him. Sypha speaks in his place. “The sun has gone down. Better not keep him waiting.”

Just the incentive he needs to plant his weak-kneed legs on the floor and chart a short course towards the door. Trevor swerves about as though he had spent a good night at the local tavern. Glancing over his shoulder at Sypha with a lovesick grin until he disappears into the hallway. She then hears something that sounds like a brief cry of pain followed by a continuous rant of grumbled expletives. One of them might have been a threat of violence, though it was buried beneath the gruffness of his lowered voice.

Sypha sits tentatively, unsure if it’s worth investigating. A good minute passes before the cause of Trevor’s sudden foul mood reveals itself—rather herself. She peeks over the side of the mattress and sees Alucard’s tiny green-tinged fairy confined to the ground as she drags behind a white and gold box twice her size. Her butterfly thin wings flap themselves to death but with every determined jingle, she makes the treacherous journey towards the bed.

The urge to help the small creature rises after Sypha’s initial curiosity at her unprompted arrival. “There you go, little one.” She picks up the box and creates a space for it atop the nightstand. Newly unencumbered, the fairy shoos away her hand. She can do this herself. The box is opened, showing a dainty makeshift bed. Before Sypha lets out a delighted coo, the fairy turns a winding key. She sings along with the sweet melody; no sheet music or lyric book, only her own intuition.

Sypha snuggles against the pillows, watching like a child in awe. Happy for the music and company. It seems their small feud has ended at last—more than she can say for Trevor. She’ll sleep wonderfully tonight.

* * *

He reads the words on each page but there is little comprehension. The contents of the novel—story, characters, themes, message—they leave no lasting mark on his subconscious. Paper edges soften and fray from the clamminess of his fingertips. Alucard picked up this book in order to steer his thoughts in a different direction yet takes no time in allowing anything to sink into the vulnerable recesses of his mind. He used to envelop himself in a good story, carefully examining every syllable so that their meanings and hidden wisdom would become his own.

Before there’s a moment to refocus, he’s torn through half of the book and remembers nothing. He requires something else despite having no energy to seek it out.

Instead, he’ll rest against the bed pillows, ruminating in his own sweat caused by the lengthy nightgown he wears. Passively reading a book he no longer cares about. Distraction arrives in the form of a knock at his door. Closing it tight during the darker hours has become another habit of Alucard’s. Most nights he locks it until morning. He’s never done that before, not even when the castle played host to father’s particular stock of acquaintances.

“It’s me.” A voice announces from the other side. The muscles in Alucard’s shoulders ease up. He once found that voice grating, now it comes with a twinge of adoration. 

“Come in.”

The door creaks open and Trevor saunters inside. He looks tired; not exhausted, but somewhere between the alertness of being awake and the seductive throes of sleep. Alucard can’t think about the prospect of sleep yet but if Trevor is here, if he can feel him close by, the idea daunts him a little less.

“Good evening.”

“Evening. Just wanted to check in on you. See how you’re faring.”

Alucard’s heavy eyes perk open. “How considerate… you and Sypha care for me that much.”

Trevor narrows his brow in confusion. “Why wouldn’t we? After all we went through together.”

“I know. I cannot extend my gratitude enough for what you both have done for me. Still, it never hurts to make sure.”

“Yeah… you’re right about that.”

The validation that someone truly loves and cares for you, not out of a begrudging obligation, is a constant need. Trevor has clambered after it as often as he does for a strong drink to dull his pain; certainly, more times than he cares to admit. He doesn’t chide Alucard for asking. If he himself weren’t the reigning champion of internalization, he would ask Sypha the same thing until her poor ears fountained with blood.

“But you can admit it now. Before it was a lot harder.”

Alucard shifts the topic once the back of Trevor’s hand catches his attention. A concentrated area of the skin has turned red, inflamed, marked with what looks to be a bite from a small creature. He should have predicted this.

“Did she do that?”

Trevor sees what Alucard is referring to and nods. “Still don’t think she likes me very much.”

“You will grow on her eventually.” Alucard speaks with an unexpected amount of optimism—more so than Trevor.

“Remember how I told you that everyone regrets it in the end.”

“And that turned out to be untrue.”

Trevor snorts. “Liar.”

“You’ve been inside my mind. I can’t slip anything past you. I can’t even lie.”

With Alucard’s stillness comes contemplation, strong enough for Trevor to sense his somber demeanour. Plunged into his own train of thought, his aimless eyes settle on the length and thickness of Alucard’s garments. There are places within the castle that stay as cold as the undead life of their former master, yet summer’s heat manages to seep through ever cracked window and wall pocket. Trevor has taken to wearing nothing at night, not the nightgowns offered by each guest room or the underclothes he wears now.

“Aren’t you hot in that thing?” He asks, under the assumption that the son of Dracula is more human than vampire.

Alucard’s back stiffens. A questionable look crosses over his eyes. “Did you really come here to check on me? Make sure I haven’t pushed myself on a downward spiral yet again?”

 _Shit._ Trevor had an inkling it wasn’t the right thing to say. He can tell Alucard’s trust in him is slipping away every time he opens his mouth, and nothing comes out. Why must this be so hard for both of them? He wants to make this right. Frustration will not dictate his response.

“Of course I did. You have to believe me, Alucard—”

“No, you’re right. I should not have said that. Goodnight.”

Alucard lies down as a means of deflection, turning away as though preparing himself for a night devoid of sleep. His stomach clenches at the possibility that everything they did was for naught and he will fall back into old habits. As his body moves, so does the nightgown, shifting along his leg to reveal his bare calf. Trevor won’t have to imagine the full extent of his new scars. They encircle his ankle stretching all the way up his limb. An unwelcome serpent in the garden of Eden. Alucard’s other leg must be the same. It is a hard sight—an awful one—but Trevor refuses to flinch. He stared everything in his mind castle head on without the weakness of looking away; this is no different.

“Look,” he begins with a deep inhale. “I don’t mean to treat you like you’re helpless. I know we saw a lot in the dream… but if there are things you’d still rather not talk about; you don’t have to. Take as much time as you need.”

The nightgown feels heavy—Alucard hates it. He’s always hated this nightgown. He hates how it weighs down on his shoulders, how it gives his skin no air to breathe, how it clings to every bead of sweat; most of all, he hates how it transforms him into a ghost.

_You amaze me, Trevor Belmont. I’ve called you a drunkard and a child amongst worse. I expected nothing from you—less than nothing. Yet you prove me wrong even now. You should hate me after all I’ve said… Why don’t you hate me yet? You will when I show you. But you still deserve to see, just as you and Sypha deserved to know._

Alucard sits up, aware of the boldness—perhaps severity—of this decision. Hands gripping the bottom trim of the nightgown, he slides it up his legs. Carefully, methodically. He glances at Trevor; still watching, still giving his undivided attention. Alucard wouldn’t call this moment something so lascivious as voyeurism, but his breath hitches under someone else’s gaze. Finally, the damp piece of fabric is tossed over his head and to the side. It crumples into a white pile on the floor. There is nothing separating Alucard’s scars from Trevor now.

“Don’t say it.”

“Say what?”

Alucard fights the urge to break eye contact and cross his arms over his chest. “They don’t matter. That I should look past them. Even if I tried, they would still be there. I still have to look at them in every mirror I pass. So please, spare me the falsities.”

Trevor grants his request. He wholly empathizes with his reasoning, thus there are no adequate words. It isn’t necessary because Trevor has something he needs to show as well. 

First, he removes the shirt, then trousers, as plain as if it were time for bed. Both keep their distance out of consideration, though Alucard’s hand twitches. His eyes have deceived him before; he needs to know how many are real. The claw marks across his chest, each individual scratch along his abdomen, and the ragged half-moon crescents ravaging his back. Trophies that could never belong down in the family museum. Trevor can’t read minds, but he can read the silence hanging in the air while Alucard hesitates.

“It’s alright. I won’t mind.”

Alucard didn’t need to ask the first time; why should he ask now. Leaning forward, he touches Trevor’s tanned breast and outlines the curves of those three marks. The collision of skin upon skin, the comparison between two bodies that are so similar, fires up Alucard’s fingertips.

“There are so many more than I thought,” he breathes.

“I’m not trying to compete. I just want you to know that you’re not alone in this.”

“At least you earned yours by committing noble deeds; saving villagers from vampires and monsters.”

Trevor takes Alucard’s hand, lowering it away from the scars. “Not always. Before you ask, I’m not talking about bar fights. Sometimes you have to do bad things in order to survive. Other times you have to let bad things happen to you if you want to live to see tomorrow.”

The casualty of Trevor’s voice infuriates Alucard. How this man continues to frustrate him so easily. _Don’t speak of those things so lightly. Stop seeing yourself as disposable, a doll that can be easily discarded. Think about Sypha. Think about me._

Trevor’s hand never left his. They move closer slowly, to the point where they wonder if they’re really moving at all. Nothing lies between them; nothing holds them back. Only the empty space growing smaller, ever smaller. Alucard tilts his head before Trevor follows suit. Eyes close, muscles turn stiff. This is not the first time they’ve felt the warmth and tickle of each other’s breath. Careful now. Gently now…

Alucard’s lips taste like the wine that accompanied their dinner, yet they feel dry. When this is over—if it ever ends—they will grow soft and wet. Flushed pink with unbridled affection. Trevor’s stubble is coarser than he imagined. Somehow it excites him as he runs his fingers over the Belmont’s jawline.

While Alucard savours all that is rough yet soothing, Trevor tangles his hands in the honey smoothness of his hair. Two broad chests and two stomachs press together, blood hot with catharsis and longing. When there’s no moment to take a breath, Trevor kisses Alucard’s neck.

“We… we thought about you… while we were gone, we—” A soft voice shushes him, stroking the back of his head.

“Don’t talk. You don’t need to talk…”

More against their mouths, as Alucard desires them, before Trevor pulls him onto his lap. Every bit of him—lips, neck, shoulders, and breast—taste divine. With the scent of pine and the way his arms hold him so deep in their embrace, Alucard is reminded of a forest. The deceptive mist has dissipated and the fresh apples hanging off their reinvigorated branches taste sweet. It’s safe here, with him. 

A sharpness takes root within Alucard’s groin. It happens fast, without the mercy of warning. Did something brush against it? Swallowing hard, he says one word.

“No.”

Trevor stops. He stays calm and loosens his grip. It doesn’t matter what he feels or thinks, whether confusion or the fear that he’s done something wrong. All he can and should do is wait until Alucard gathers himself after every deep breath.

“I’m not ready. Not yet. I’m sorry if I made you think otherwise, but please understand.”

“I do. I understand.” He plays with the little stray curl of hair that hangs in the centre of Alucard’s forehead. Always that one curl which can never stay in place. “I think we were both going too quickly.”

“But I don’t want you to leave.”

A weight lifts off Trevor as the corners of his mouth soften.

“Alright.” He repeats himself just as he lets Alucard go and pulls back the bedcovers. Not that he minds rocky forest floors or the stiff wood of the canvas wagon, but he’ll forever savour the way his body sinks into a real mattress. Alucard joins him as they face each other directly, their heads on either pillow.

“I’ll stay all night if you want.”

“... I would like that.” The two men settle under the covers, taking their time before their eyes can’t hold themselves open any longer. Trevor rolls onto his belly; Alucard remains on his side. Fingertips touch.

Thank god that horrid nightgown was thrown on the floor.

* * *

He should have known there would be no escape. That the cycle will never be broken by acts of kindness or valour. Like a spinning wheel with a sharpened spindle, time moves in a circle; an ouroboros eating itself to the brink before it realizes it can’t be granted the sweet release of death. Looking up, the twisted castle mocks him. Try to climb us, the steps, bridges, and archways cackle. Try to reach that light at the end of everything.

Stone and mortar watch with perverse glee as Alucard struggles in his pool of blackness. The substance holding down every inch of him is too thick to be water and carries the same foul taste and stench as blood. He’s not a doll but rather his naked self. Perhaps it’s worse this way; he might have been better off as an object. Although shallow, the liquid creeps over his body, into his eyes, nose, and mouth, causing him to sputter and choke. He can feel it inside, down his stomach and around his heart.

Alucard grits his teeth and raises a hand only to weakly slap it back down into the pool, splashing more darkness into his face. Pointless. Useless. No escape. No reason to keep going.

“Why have you stopped trying?”

He opens his watery eyes at the sound of a distant voice. Sitting on a series of stairs leading down the stepwell are two figures, bright and seemingly non corporeal. Are they angels or ghosts? Alucard can’t tell from their blurry faces and the large white shroud covering their bodies. 

But he does recognize the figures. One taller and one shorter, draped in a single fur cloak that Alucard thought had been abandoned. It seems so much softer, same as their voices and facial features. Maybe this is wishful thinking, maybe this is an illusion based on his desperate wants. Maybe he doesn’t care.

“Why have you not pulled yourself out?” The figure of Sypha asks once more.

“I want to.” With the amount of liquid in his mouth, Alucard’s reply comes out like a vomit.

“But?”

“But… I worry.”

“About what?”

Revealing his answer hurts as much as any attempt to break free from his liquid chains. “I worry that if I try, I will only cause more damage to myself and to others.”

The silhouette of Trevor speaks. “Try. If you fail, then try again. You’ll never know what’ll happen otherwise.”

Alucard bites his lower lip as a stream of blood trickles down into the pool. That miniscule, pathetic excuse for pain is nothing when he digs his nails underneath the surface. They break and snap, beating his fingertips raw and bloodied. The air smells like copper. He never asks for help, only grunts and bellows out a final roar of agony upon reaching the edge. His voice won’t ever reach the same heights, not when the chords of his throat have been shredded. Black tendrils stick to Alucard’s skin, begging him to stay. Don’t leave us. You can’t.

Their grasp on him slackens, cut by his own determination. His limbs give out despite their release. Alucard crawls out of the pit, shaking. Some of the liquid remains. It brandishes his skin like bruises. Sypha offers what she can when she sees Alucard grimace at his arms and legs. It is harsh but it is necessary.

“We can survive terrible things, but they still leave their marks on us. Sometimes, they never really fade away. Those marks might even change us, and we can never go back to the person we once were.”

Alucard realizes the path towards bettering himself will present its own challenges. This world, their cruel reality does not offer anything with ease. His escape from the pool will pale in comparison. 

He might as well start now. Step by step, trembling up his tower of stairs.

Before Alucard can begin his pilgrimage, Trevor and Sypha gather him into their arms, wrapping the fur cloak around him. They press him against their own naked bodies.

“Rest. Breathe,” Trevor murmurs. “You can move forward when you’re ready.”

Their touch is the same as when they held him as a doll—gentle, soft, and careful. This is not a mere projection of his starved mind; this could be real. This could happen during their waking hours. Alucard asks himself: could it happen now? It’s just as Trevor said, he’ll never know what might happen if he doesn’t try.

Standing up straight, still draped in fur and the company of friends, Alucard further exposes his chest and abdomen. A sharp nail elongates from his fingertip. Both Trevor and Sypha saw for themselves how it can cut through metal; it doesn’t come as a shock when it cuts through much softer things. Alucard continues to draw breath even as he cuts a perfect line between his breasts. He pulls open either side, never spilling a drop of blood, to reveal a steadily beating anatomical heart.

“I want to try.”

Their lack of clear expressions concerns Alucard; it must have been how Trevor and Sypha felt as well, escorting his fabric and wool form. They contemplate his offering before accepting it with wordless actions. Trevor reaches into the open chest cavity, cupping the heart in his palm. He runs a thumb over the delicate organ, fondling it, mindful of force and pressure. Sypha, never one to be left out, stands on her toes and kisses Alucard’s eyelids. Soft as moth wings before they wander too close to an open flame.

Alucard’s breath quickens, but the shock pooling under Trevor’s slow touch then racing through his nerves is difficult to describe. It’s not a pain which causes him anguish; he wouldn’t even call it pain.

Roughened lips caress the heart and suddenly, Alucard no longer wants to overthink.

* * *

Perhaps Trevor will admit to it if given enough time, but he never wants to wake up alone again. The cold stony earth was once his bed while every good morning arrived as a pounding headache. Now his body has grown accustomed to feeling another person’s weight on the other side of his mattress. The tickle of Sypha’s curls brushing his nose or his hand lazily stroking Alucard’s smooth backside. It’s a far greater reward to wake up this way instead of hating oneself and the rest of humanity. The bedroom glows bright with the sun’s rays; gold as the locks of hair Trevor reaches for to run his hand through.

“Morning…”

The absence of Alucard’s reply doesn’t worry him. Half human or not, creatures of the night rarely do well in the early morning light—neither do hunters the more Trevor thinks about it.

Eyes force themselves open yet there’s no one there to greet him in return. Only a few messy blankets and sheets where another body once lay. A rational, clear headed mind would come to the conclusion that Alucard woke up first and is somewhere in the castle going about some everyday chore.

Trevor is neither rational nor clear headed. He violently throws the cover off, muttering every sort of insult at himself. Stupid, careless, absolutely fucking idiocy. While he remained unconscious like a blissful child without a worry in his heart, something happened to Alucard. Trevor is certain of it; certain as he is about disregarding his shirt before hurrying outside in his trousers and nothing else.

After finding the other bedroom shared by him and Sypha, he begins explaining the predicament but soon realizes that he’s speaking to an empty chamber. Alucard must be with her, then. Or she’s searching for him as well and they’re both on a mad chase throughout this stone and metal goliath. 

Trevor’s next immediate stop is the kitchen, the only other castle room which always seemed uncharacteristic of Dracula to implement. Alucard of course, and his mother, but not his father. It’s a relieving sign when Trevor just makes it to the entrance before he already hears two voices, happy and light. Hearty laughs sprinkled between words.

“I don’t think I did it right.”

“You did fine.”

“But the ones you made look far more… put together.”

“I like yours. Very rustic.”

“Oh, well that makes me feel much better.”

“Wait until we place the chopped green onions on top.”

Trevor won’t interrupt them yet. As much as he wants to join, it wouldn’t be polite especially upon seeing how close Alucard and Sypha have drawn into one another. They stand in front of the stove while billows of steam rise above. Pans clatter together as a train of enticing aromas waft throughout the room. Sypha rests her head on his shoulder, one hand laid atop his back. Alucard is comfortable enough to reciprocate such touch. His own fingers wrap around her waist and squeeze her hip.

This sight strikes Trevor as oddly familiar; not the exact persons per say but the atmosphere of his family’s communal kitchen during a time when the Belmont Manor stood high. Morning, noon, and evening it was ripe with the creation of good food and the strengthening of even better company. One could never be patient in that room for very long. Stolen marmalades and savoury treats swiped off the counters became commonplace. Despite his preference for solitude, the kitchen always welcomed the young Belmont.

“There you are, Trevor!” The volume of Sypha’s greeting snaps Trevor out of his daydream. Alucard turns to him, expression soft but just as glad to see him. “I was about to drag you down here. Breakfast is ready.”

Plates, silverware, and glasses crowd the table along with meats and cheeses of varying tastes which range from delightfully subtle to pleasantly strong. In the centre rests a large pot of hot sand emitting a distinctively robust scent. There’s barely any space left over for the platter of egg toast slices set down by Alucard.

“I may have gone a little overboard,” he admits sheepishly. 

There are no complaints, considering the sad display of a meal Trevor and Sypha remember making him all those mornings ago. Everyone takes their seats, filling each plate with fresh hot morsels. Trevor pours himself a cup of that Turkish coffee he’s heard so much about. While it warms his blood and bones, he requires a bit of sweetness. Luckily the sugar is in close proximity to where he sits. He drops a healthy dose into the liquid and drinks again—before promptly spitting it out. Alucard jumps whereas Sypha clicks her tongue.

“This is why you wait until it cools down.”

“What the hell kind of sugar is this?”

Alucard examines the jar and after a small taste, he can’t hold back his laughter. “This is salt, Trevor.”

“You’ve got to be joking.” He snatches it back, smelling the contents, until he hears the unfortunate twinkle of wings. Atop one of the counters sits that demon of a fairy as she takes innocent, baby sized bites out of an apple that’s thrice her size.

Maybe Trevor should bottle and pickle her inside a jar of ale.

Sypha, though sharing in Alucard’s giggling fit, uses this moment to start a new conversation. “Trevor and I were talking, when we were still in the dream, and we wondered—”

“About cleaning the castle and continuing to rebuild the manor. Perhaps grow a garden somewhere.”

Trevor stops chewing on his strip of bacon. Alucard’s interruption is almost word for word what Sypha mentioned under the apple tree. “How did you know?”

“You were in my mind. I could hear everything.”

“Then, what do you think?” Sypha asks.

Alucard takes a careful sip of his coffee. “Well, the grounds between the castle and manor are rather barren… though I suppose you haven’t unpacked the wagon yet.”

“We did, actually. A while ago.”

“So, you’ll be staying for an extended period of time.”

“Only if you let us.”

Lips smile against his cup; he’d let them do anything. Bring life to dead soil, enter a dream world where horrors can be quelled, hold him in the dead of night. Save humanity by snuffing out the last flame of his family. That is, Alucard once believed Dracula was the last of what he called “family”. What was it that Lisa told him during that one nightmare?

_I have the utmost confidence that you will find the right person. Even if they turn out to be someone you least expect._

The Tepes’ seem to be rather good at that.

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

Another hot day. Summer isn’t done gracing the world with its presence of sun and heat, even when no one asks for it. Trevor has gone over his list of excuses: it’s too humid to start planting. They’ll all die of heatstroke before the day’s over. Alucard’s skin will burn so terribly, he and Sypha will have to peel it off until he resembles one of those hairless cats. Not the prettiest sight. It would be the worst cruelty to force him to garden today of all days. Then the bastard had to go and show his willing enthusiasm, thus ruining Trevor’s plans.

“I cannot imagine what you don’t understand about this, Trevor.” Sypha says, her hands deep in the earth as she and Alucard place more seeds. His palms are still full of those waiting to be submerged in the loose soil.

“All I’m saying is it seems pointless to plant sweet lemon trees when we’ll most likely die before we can ever see them sprout.”

“Consider then your future generations, Trevor.” Alucard counters his admittedly grim outlook. “Once the trees are fully grown, you can rest easy with the knowledge that they’ll enjoy the spoils of your hard work.”

“Precisely.”

Trevor scratches the back of his sweaty head. He never considered it; never thought about the possibility that he would father new generations of the Belmonts. Though now might be a good starting point. If only to indulge his partners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S DONE!! WE FINALLY MADE IT TO THE END!! thank you all so much for sticking around and leaving kudos/comments. even though this fic is only five months old, it was a journey getting from chapter one all the way to this closing chapter.
> 
> a big thank you to [kabumek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kabumek/) for their collaboration, ideas, and feedback i really couldn't have done this without you <33 another thank you to [justsayapple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justsayapple/) for being such an enthusiastic beta-reader <333


	10. clockwork toys for an empty winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for animal harm, taxidermy, and mild suggestive content near the end. additional links:
> 
> [donations for RAINN](https://donate.rainn.org/donate/)   
>  [donations for the Institute on Violence, Abuse, and Trauma](https://www.ivatcenters.org/donate/)

The corridor is filled with white snowflakes falling from shattered windows across the cold stone floor. They look like stars to the wandering doll, drifting gently before melting atop his plush head of yarn. All along the carpet and tucked away in each corner are more stars stacked into crumbling piles. Winter has come to the castle, bringing silence and emptiness.

It is not an unwelcome arrival. Staircases towering towards an unseen heaven twist as they are supposed to, guiding those who traverse their platforms throughout the numerous parts of the castle. Most doors to unspoken and unadmitted thoughts are now free from puzzling locks. Or so one thinks. So one hopes.

Alucard toddles forward without the fear of his own self hunting him. No fear, but still a healthy wariness to each step, being a doll and all. Those mismatched button eyes unblinking and his face with a stitched mouth that holds no expression. He relies on restricted movements in order to speak, so to say. A tilt of the head, a wave of one stubby arm which is shorter than the other; simple examples yet all the more striking as most normal dolls would never have such abilities. What two visitors into Alucard’s mind believed at first until they quickly learned to accept this change regarding their own friend.

He doesn’t have them now nor can he find them. He doesn’t need to, not while he walks, lacking their assistance further down the hall through each sprinkling of white snow stars brought inside by the wind. But there is a want. Alucard wants to find a hunter and a scholar—his hunter and scholar—elsewhere amongst the many rooms of this quiet winter architecture. Wants often coincide with needs. To some, they mean the same thing.

Alucard remembers what happened to his feeble body. The tearing of fabric, thread, and wool. Vital appendages lost, regained, then lost again. How he transformed into a lifeless husk when the monster of his own making was defeated then all was said and done—only to return in this form. Deeper than healing will allow, he will always view his vulnerability as small, childish, and easily mistreated like a doll.

Still, he can walk on his own and hold his head higher than before. Even as a doll.

The memories are there, but the physical sensations remain missing. Alucard can’t feel anything outwardly. The only things which make him hurt or pleasured are what’s internal. Imagination, so vivid and attuned, is Alucard’s key. A skill he’s perfected since childhood. It’s his only way of knowing how wonderful a gentle hand holding his tiny body feels or the agony of being ripped to shreds.

The snowscape corridor eventually comes to a turn. Alucard rounds the corner and finds himself in another, one much darker and more of a wreckage than what he just left behind. Carpets torn at their edges, candelabras shattered into pieces forming a mosaic upon the floor, and a passing draft which sounds like the last whine of a dying animal. The doll prince shivers, not because of the cold.

He’s walked this hall before in dreams and waking hours. When it was intact, much like the rest of the castle, then after he and another lord nearly destroyed it all while neither one cared. Alucard scurries on ahead, eager to leave before familiar sights morph into certain memories of a past home he wishes to bury. A door appears to his immediate right, opened just enough for a doll to slip through.

Alucard cannot speak. He cannot feel. But he can think, louder than any spoken word he could muster, as he peers into the room.

_Is anyone there?_

Not even the wind answers. Alucard enters regardless, calling out again, hoping something else in his active conscience will respond. It is the room itself who answers. Not through words or thoughts but through a sudden display of paper, wood, and other menial textiles moving in tandem with the intent of materializing whole everyday objects. Bookshelves, tables, a bed, each item crawling along all four sides in jagged motions until things settle into place. Alucard stands in a crudely handcrafted mirror of his childhood bedchamber.

_I’m back in here._

Without asking, he receives a response to his inner observation meant only for himself. A series of scratches and bumps similar to a caged prey trying to claw its way to freedom. The doll jumps, his nerves further on edge. He listens closely while following the noises. They lead him to a toy chest; small to any human but next to Alucard, the wood and metal looms with a shadow of intimidation. Something moves within as the previously nondescript sounds begin to form words only Alucard can hear.

_Help us._

Then the words are gone. Flittering away and vanishing just as snowflakes do.

Alucard acts on impulse. Before he can stop to think about whether this is a trap once again set by some darker part of his mind, he’s found an ingenious way to climb up and enter the chest. He’s always been cleverly reckless. Using a paintbrush as a sturdy lever between his fingerless nubs, he opens the lid and tumbles inside.

The doll lands with a muffled _plop_ , expelling a small cloud of dust into the stagnant air. If Alucard had lungs, he would break into a coughing fit. Shaking off excess cobwebs and moth balls, he looks to the opposite end of the toy chest. If he had a heart, it would beat wildly at the sight before him.

_You’re both here._

They are just as he made them; blue button eyes, fabric manipulated to resemble their unique clothing, a bit of string shaped like a whip for one, and yarn hair hastily stitched to their lumpy heads. Forcibly shoved into the corner, limbs contorted as though they were taking up too much space. He keeps a distance from them, remembering how he tore his friends into pieces then attempted to burn the scraps from existence. Desperate to erase something he viewed as stupidly childish. A sick, hurtful feeling that rose up the same way bile does told him so. It told him to do it. What if they remember as well?

Alucard tries to listen again. Perhaps they will speak like when they called out for help. But there is nothing aside from his own voice echoing inside his little head stuffed with wool. The Trevor doll moves, slightly turning his head, followed by Sypha. They see him, button eye unblinking. Alucard fears what will happen next. Might they turn away? Might they forsake him for what he did?

After a few difficult movements, Trevor frees himself from his entanglement with Sypha. He wants to get closer to the other doll, the one which his real self fought so hard to defend throughout the first dream, but his limbs won’t allow it. Trevor awkwardly trips over his poor excuses for arms and legs. Not even Sypha with her infinite amounts of determination can bend each metal soup ladle to her will. There’s no stability to how they hold themselves. They fall like the ragdolls they are.

_Why did I ever create you like this?_

But whatever Alucard did in the waking world cannot be changed out there—though perhaps they can be changed now. He searches the remainder of the toy chest for something that will help. A piece of wood, a lost pen, anything that could act as substitution. Far off in the corners where cobwebs have grown thick as lace, Alucard finds it. The Trevor and Sypha dolls cock their heads while the doll dressed in black and gold works his little hands down to his nonexistent bones.

Scraps of fabric bound tightly together with thread until they’re sturdy enough to act as limbs; that’s all it takes. Alucard carries over the four arms and four legs, hoping they’ll be accepted. He suddenly recalls an offhand comment made by Trevor regarding his occasional bouts of creativity; Wallachia’s own Da Vinci. In another lifetime, perhaps.

It feels wrong to disassemble his own loved ones but once the ladles are removed, wriggling threads sprout from their stunted bodies. They snatch the new appendages and attach themselves. The scene is uncanny but brief and lifts a weight off Alucard’s shoulders when Trevor and Sypha stand tall. They examine their new limbs, better and stronger. He hears that same voice which is not his own.

_Thank you._

Escaping the chest is simple when three dolls work together instead of one. Through wordless motions, nodding the head or aggressively pointing. Alucard holds Trevor atop his head, who in turn holds Sypha as she uses the same paintbrush lever to open a gap. She slips out first, pulling the other two behind. Yet the easy nature of the toy chest leaves them woefully unprepared for what the bedroom changed in their absence. The door is now shut tight without a crack to slide under.

Trevor turns to Alucard and waits. _This is your room, and this is your dream, so do something._ He can’t hear these exact words but assumes it’s what Trevor’s prolonged emotionless stare means. Alucard doesn’t have an answer and all three dolls begin the search for a way out. The room itself constantly shifts in small, seemingly miniscule ways as if to keep them trapped forever. Erratic movements meant to catch each them off guard with how unnatural this supposedly familiar environment feels.

Nothing beneath Alucard’s bed nor his desk. Not a crack or sliver. He knows that Trevor is starting to get frustrated when he notices him dragging his makeshift feet on the floor, giving his miniscule shoulders a slight forward hunch. Alucard can’t berate his lack of motivation or how quickly he gives up. There’s only so much a doll feels capable of.

Their communal sense of ennui is done away with the moment Sypha patters up to them as fast as her new legs can carry her. She pushes them towards one of the shelves packed tightly from end to end with books. Alucard and Trevor tilt their heads then glance in her direction; they’ve searched this area before and found nothing. Of course, that was without Sypha as their third eye. Their third invaluable intuition. After strategically repositioning a few books, she unveils a hole carved out of the back shelf like a mouse hole big enough just for them.

If Sypha were more human, an unmistakable self-congratulatory look would grace her facial expressions and she would lord it over her two men until she grew bored or something else begged for her attention. Yet the way she takes charge in crawling through the hole tells Alucard and Trevor that this version of their beloved Speaker has no time for her other petty personality quirks. They follow, dropping onto their bellies and squeezing through into whatever awaits them on the other side.

* * *

The room is made of blank parchment. Walls tremble as the three dolls enter and surround themselves in its crumpled, uneven void. Until each corner bleeds.

Like rain or like a gaping wound left to empty itself, waterfalls of paint cascade along all four sides. Dull, ugly colours including dirt mahogany and muddied beige water. Trevor, Sypha, and Alucard form a tightly knit three-bodied form as they hold each other, trying to step over the wet paint. Little attempts prove pointless when the entirety of the room is coated in dark shades. Trevor and Sypha bring their attention to Alucard.

_What is happening?_

The constant movement and shifting of this unknown environment aren’t dangerous (to their limited knowledge). Yet there is an unsettling manner to how the floor and walls have now begun to form shapes out of the newly painted surfaces. Rows upon rows of books, some organized in stark contrast when compared to the mismanagement of other shelves directly above and below. More books emerge from the ground, concerning Alucard and his companions. Objects with dimension which can be touched and held against flat images painted with a clotted brush.

_A library._

What was once blank paper is now a book, binding and all. Sypha seems the most entranced, forgetting her initial anxious frenzy. She scurries about, examining every spine and front cover her gaze can reach. Endless knowledge both familiar and undiscovered. It would not surprise Alucard if this is what her mind palace resembles. Or there is the more probable revelation; this is just a shallow, superficial projection of the dream.

Alucard’s attention is drawn away from Sypha’s excited run-around when Trevor gives his head a rough but well-meaning poke. His way of reminding the patchwork doll to better focus his thoughts and find them a way out. Elsewhere, the roles would be switched, although admittedly Alucard’s methods weren’t nearly as moderate. Another projection, perhaps, but there is no time to dwell on it.

Sypha once again saves them more trouble than they can thank her for. Both notice her struggle with a book ten times her size and run to her side. All three pull it off the shelf as the book narrowly misses Trevor’s foot. Alucard doesn’t need to imagine a hypothetical look of scorn crossing his otherwise placated face. At the very least, the small hunter is distracted by what they’ve managed to discover.

Solving the bedroom’s riddle was only the beginning; a test meant to challenge their limited vessels. This is the same. In place of the book they removed lies a wide-open entrance into another aisle where countless more line the walls and floorboards. Crawling through, their objective is clear with nothing but a swift examination of their surroundings. Find the correct book, search for any anomalies—a spine thicker than the rest or a darker shade among a sea of bright colours—and the way forward shall present itself. 

Most things start out simple, lulling the three explorers into a false sense of repetition. One spots the exact book they need, the other reaches for it, then the last doll leads the others into the next section of this bountiful library. When will it end? Does it have an end? Are they pushing themselves deeper into a labyrinth of parchment and crumbled paper made to resemble an archive?

It’s only when Sypha stands on Alucard’s head, balancing himself upon Trevor’s do things change. This is the dozenth book she’s held but it is the only one which moves on its own accord. It shakes causing her to lose grip on either side of the spine. Sypha sends the book tumbling, again missing Trevor by a slight margin. He jumps in surprise and the scene dissolves into short lived chaos. Their tower of cooperation falls apart with each doll plunking down into a disgruntled pile.

_A good idea while it lasted_ , Alucard tells himself as he wriggles out from beneath Trevor.

The book continues to move in a fit, prompting everyone to proceed with due caution. Who knows what this could mean inside the dream? Trevor takes initiative in opening the cover, expecting to see pages of magic spells he wishes he could understand but cannot. The pages are there, though not even Alucard could predict the sort of content they would find. The book had good reason to move so frantically.

Like opening a jewelry cabinet, a toy chest, or a fairy’s music box bed, they marvel at the treasure waiting for them. Embedded within the stacked pages cut in the shape of its unique body is a wind-up bird. Small enough to be cupped in the palm of someone’s hand. Tucked in wings, a blunted beak, and short talons feebly wriggling out of its confines. The surface of its feathers shines dully as worn-down metal tinks and clicks with stiff movement.

Trevor, Sypha, and Alucard grant the toy a good amount of space while it clumsily emerges from the book. They’re greeted with inquisitive coos and quick tilts of the head. It doesn’t flee or back away when Sypha reaches out to feel the metal for herself. Stranger things have happened before; even stranger encounters. What if this toymaker’s bird is the very guide they require to best the library’s maze?

To plainly show Alucard the evidence that this is truly his mind where things occur because something inside him wills it, the bird answers his question. It hops towards the end of the aisle and stops, chirping madly for them to follow. When all four are gathered, the wall of bookshelf slides out of sight. As simple as sliding the pieces of a well-crafted puzzle box. The bird leads the charge, spreading its heavy rusted wings, eager to fly and provide them a fast escape.

It takes only a moment for the bird to come stumbling back down, held down by its own cumbersome weight. The dolls hurry to its side in concern. Trevor especially, catching Alucard’s attention. Like his sudden connection to this toy hidden away in a strange manner is greater than the others’. The bird shakes them off with indignant chirps. It doesn’t need to be smothered; it needs to try again.

And it does with even less success than before. Tumbling, struggling, and falling always downwards. Each descent leaves the stubborn metallic creature in a more mangled position than before. _Fly. It can’t be that hard. Just keep trying._ No amount of wishful thinking on Alucard’s part is able to deter the bird from failing yet another attempt.

With a ruffled shake of its head and wings, it finally thinks “enough of this”. If it cannot fly, then it will walk. Trevor, Alucard, and Sypha keep a slow, calculated pace so the bird doesn’t exert itself upon its spindly legs hop after hop. This small party of four toys snake their way throughout the library as new pathways reveal themselves thanks to the bird’s unshakeable sense of direction. Never faltering, never hesitating. Bookshelves carrying various titles continuously slide up and down, side to side, furthering the sheer depth and extent of a complex room.

_Curious,_ Alucard thinks to himself. Curious indeed. The more they traverse the library, the more he realizes how not unknown it really is. There is one place he feels reminded of. Underground, past a tower of stone decorated with a family’s legacy. Centuries of self-imposed duty painted in portraits and embroidered upon tapestries. Hidden deep in the earth, a subterranean chamber filled with parchments and ink. 

So lost in his own recollection, Alucard doesn’t hear the distant scratching and ripping of pages that follows them down every path. It stops for a brief collection of seconds, granting them silence, then starts back up again. Whenever Trevor tugs at his arm, he dismissively shoves him off. 

_Not now. No time to stop now. Later when we’ve bested this maze._

They arrive at some place new. A bridge of books floating in mid-air like lily pads on a gentle pond. The troupe glance down below the odd structure and are greeted with nothing. A void made to look like the night sky where each individual white star, constellation, and planet are mere scribbles by an amateur artist. More an unfinished drawing than a skyscape. Across the bridge lies a door.

They should be paying better attention to Trevor’s continued attempts at warning them of what’s been close behind all this time. Hunting them as they were hunted before. Not as intently this time or with a festering angry open wound rage, but as a sense of growing curiosity which bled into territorial aggression. The creature smells them and thus traces their path, lumbering until it catches up just as they are about to cross the bridge.

As their stalker approaches on heavy feet, the bird instinctively takes up the duty of protective barrier between the dolls and this grotesque beast. An unnaturally bloated mass of greasy fur, fresh blisters oozing puss soured by blood, and dripping saliva towers over the troupe. All of them are familiar with rats, perhaps more so than night creatures. Alucard in his infinite childhood energy chased the little devils throughout the castle halls, thinking them to be his father in another one of his many forms. While traveling, Trevor shared his many dirt and stone beds with them, feeling an odd sort of comradery. In her youth, Sypha fostered a few as pets, frightening the other Speaker children. 

Clever but harmless animals. Yet they know well enough how dreams can transform anything into larger monsters, even vermin.

The rat chatters its yellow teeth before bellowing out a vulgar hiss. Bits of chewed paper and drops of black ink spurt from its elongated mouth. The bird squawks incessantly while pecking at the putrid mound of flesh. Animalistic sounds of defiance converse with shrieks of pain. The dolls stand away from the fight; should they help and risk the shredding of their soft bodies? Should they flee as their guide and defender wants them to do?

They do nothing. Nothing as the rat somehow gains an upper hand on the bird. Nothing still as the rat brings its large fists down on the bird, violently crushing the metal head, wings, and feathers into a form just as unrecognizable as its own. Is there really anything they can do?

Trevor realizes their path of action first. This dream has its tricks, its own riddles in which it takes pleasure in, but so do they. Knowing the bird cannot help them anymore, the Belmont doll distracts the rat by sneaking behind and tugging its fleshy bulbous tail. The creature pays no mind, carrying on with its rampage on what is now a helpless pile of indented metal. He pulls again with more vigor. Retaliation that would be more effective with two others.

Alucard and Sypha are quick to join Trevor. All three beat at the rat’s backside until it lets loose an ear-splitting screech, spraying globs of bloodied saliva and foam, and charges forward. The dolls run not in fear as they close in on the platform’s edge.

They want the rat to get angrier. They want it to come closer. Most of all, they want it to scratch and thrash until it makes an irreparable mistake. Its own cumbersome weight causes it to slip and descend into the stars. Into nothing.

Squeaks of horror fade. Alucard and Sypha watch as the rat’s form grows smaller before disappearing entirely. Perhaps the monster will eventually land and have its insides splatter across some hard ground. It might descend forever. Trevor isn’t interested in such theories. He diverts their concern away from what is already dead onto something that is still alive. This is what he hopes as the bird twitches like a broken toy in its final hours, sounding off its death rattle.

Trevor won’t accept it. With the same incentive as when he confronted the rat, he risks any damage done to his plush hands and pulls apart the metal wreckage. A milky substance spills out through the widening cracks. Thick and putrid, the consistency of blood yet the colour of a thin bed sheet. Embryonic.

Together, they free the very thing which had been trapped inside a hard exterior. Another bird—a real one. Warm blooded, its feathers damp and stringy. The newborn baby lies in the remains of its former self, curled up and breathing rapidly. Trevor tries to soothe it by sitting down and carefully rubbing its head. He knows how vulnerable it is, but it's safe now.

Sypha stands unsure of how to react or feel. Part of her must know the truth; that she is in fact looking at some surreal mirror version of herself. Alucard thinks to himself: _I can hear its heart beating._

Eyes open, the bird rises to its feet and fluffs itself up. One wing stretches out, then the other. It bids the trio a farewell chirp before taking off into the hand drawn night void.

They share a moment of contemplation, but it is just that—a short moment with friends. Alucard leads their pilgrimage as Trevor and Sypha make it across the bridge close behind him, jumping from book to book like steppingstones. It is a short-lived victory. One second the door is there in front of them, ready to be opened. Then in an instant, not. Four more walls sprout up, trapping the dolls while the door is scraped away. The library is gone; new colours and new items materialize at a rapid pace, a cacophony of curiosities. Trinkets, handcrafted masks with eyes and mouths pouring black liquid, shadow puppets on bones, and animal toys where the details are replaced with human features.

The dolls cling to each other, overwhelmed by a maddening onslaught until the room calms itself. Most of the unsettling miscellanea has been pushed to the back of shelves, making space for weapons of diverse range and creatures mounted on plaques and dioramas.

They are welcomed into a hunter’s quarter.

* * *

_A museum dedicated to the extermination of my people._

Alucard doesn’t know why he said it. Personal opinions regarding his kind had always ranged from painfully neutral to cautiously wary at best. Dracula’s remaining loyal confidants on the rare occasion when they did visit the castle, a young dhampir preferred to hole himself up in his room like a hermit avoiding socialization. They were schemers, blood drinkers, hungry for more influence in their respective courts and never cared to hide it, unlike his father.

Perhaps it was due to his strained worsening mood that night. He needed catharsis, a way to take out his annoyance onto something else, something outside of his control. Ruffling Trevor’s already disgruntled feathers certainly gave him temporary satisfaction.

He thought he made peace with the Belmont Hold with its decomposing vampire paraphernalia. The fanged skulls with holes in the tops of their heads and consecrated weaponry that would put most warlords to shame. Now his mind decides to conjure this new room made from distorted memories. Bitter, angrier memories. The shelves are overcrowded, more so than in the library. They bleed with objects, blades, and dead things. Yet the dolls cannot help but dig deeper, scaling up the cabinets.

They see one stuffed mount tucked away in the back shelf come to life. Subtly, but in the eerie stillness, rarely anything escapes their attention. It’s larger than the others and just as unkempt if not more so. Alucard and Trevor help push aside creatures neglected to such irreparable damage, maggots have made homes deep in the folds of their fur. Sypha tiptoes up to what looks to be a lynx, though far bigger than one she’s ever seen in the wild before. A hunched over mass of thick brown hairs that has grown matted over time, now beyond any reasonable shred of care. It breaks her doll heart to see a creature so cruelly hunted then humiliated.

Sensing another’s presence, the cat struggles to break from its mount. Its glass eyes blink clouded over in a milky hue. Sypha reaches up to which the lynx responds with a guttural hiss. Blackened fangs and a rotting stench emerge from its mouth. Had its paws not been nailed down atop a wooden plank, it would scratch open the doll and spill her soft insides. The other two grab Sypha and take her to a safe distance where they can watch as the beast clumsily extracts one foot at a time. Using its protruding snaggletooth, the cat pulls out each rusty nail the same way it would bite its own overgrown claws.

Something else, something unignorable, reveals itself when the stuffed lynx exposes its underside—a large slit running from top to bottom along the belly. An open wound which bleeds sawdust, a light sprinkling here, then a deluge of shredded wood there. Even so, with half-lidded eyes the cat huffs at this inconvenience before it shambles away, limping and ever bleeding.

They’re not frightened of it, not anymore. Least of all Sypha. Not after she’s seen what a sad, hurt, and lonely creature it truly is. Caring for nothing in this world including itself. It could empty its own body of all sawdust entrails and still it would not care. The only incentive it has left is to keep moving forward no matter how awkwardly or stilted. Alucard turns to Trevor who curiously watches Sypha charting on ahead of them, following the lynx with careful perseverance. He’s not surprised at her sudden attachment to this discarded object. Better yet, he understands it.

_Well. Let’s see if we can help you._

Becoming the lynx’s shadow is a simple enough task in theory, harder in practice. It’s deceptively easy to grow frustrated with maintaining their distance. Trevor falls victim to this more often than his companions. Then a growl and snap of gangrenous teeth helps to keep all three of them in line whenever they wander too close. Still, the beast never attacks. Barely a vicious swipe of its tail or kick of its back legs. Alucard wonders if it’s too tired or too hurt. Likely both.

_Stubborn bastard._ He knows those all too well, but of course the worst of stubborn bastards feel the weight of their own shoulders eventually. Alucard, Sypha, even Trevor can see it as the lynx slows its pace, hobbling from side to side. So much exhaustion in the supposed monotony of putting one foot in front of the other until the simplest act of moving forward becomes more of an endeavour that might never be fulfilled. At long last, it accepts quiet inevitable defeat and collapses with a hard _thud._ Still breathing, its oversized stomach rising with slow breaths despite how much has been lost, barely quickening when Sypha finally touches it. The floorboards are covered in trails of scattered sawdust.

Now is their chance. Enlisting the help of Trevor and Alucard, she rummages through another collection of oddities before uncovering the one thing they need. As though she knew precisely what to look for in such chaos. Alucard’s mind is full of needles and spools of thread, whether found in a grotesque laboratory or suffocating hunter’s closet.

The lynx doesn’t move. In and out the needle goes through its tough flesh, stitching a messy web across its gaping wound. Yet it allows the dolls to carry on with their work. Whatever they’re doing, whatever plan they have, it cannot be worse than what has already happened to it. Trevor unspools the thread, Sypha holds the needle and weaves it over the creature’s belly, then Alucard cuts it. They step back and gaze at their joined handiwork. Not nearly as neat or tight as their own individual restorations, but a decent undertaking with a satisfactory result.

Another huff from the lynx. It yawns, licking its snaggletooth, and uses a paw to gather up the dolls. Gently, without malice. To their surprise, there’s some comfort to be found in curling up in the deep recesses of its fur. While the air grows stiller and the others follow the lynx into unconsciousness, Alucard wonders if there really is an escape from this room. 

They’ll find it soon. Now is the time to sleep. The time to dream.

* * *

He thinks he can still feel the lynx’s fur gracing his skin until the coarseness and rough texture turns soft. The current scene drifts between two separate realities; discerning one from the other becomes difficult. They pour into the next like different paint strokes mixing together, creating a new picture. Alucard is brought out of the dream peacefully as the light of early morning coaxes his eyes open. No longer a doll but himself again.

His mind usually isn’t this kind to him. Changes as these tend to hit him abruptly. But these past months have come bearing respite from everything before. It helps now that Alucard has taken the daunting step of fully opening his bed. To offer it willingly, along with himself.

Alucard thought it would take some time until he grew accustomed to the crowdedness of his own bed. The knocking of knees together, strands of runaway hair making their way inside open mouths, and the constant silent battle of who gets how much of the blankets, pillows, and mattress. Sweat upon sweat in the summer and cold fingers mingling with shivers as autumn changed into winter.

But then his lips would brush against a scarred patch of skin revealed by Sypha’s nightgown exposing her shoulders. His cheek would feel the curve of Trevor’s breast steadily rising and falling. His skin sinking into the other man’s warmth. Alucard began to think differently about each night.

He’s not the first to wake. Not the first to squint into the light and knows just from the blinding sun that this new day has brought fresh snow to the grounds. He stretches his stiff bones under the blankets, noticing a gap between himself and Trevor which was not there before. Lying down like a sun drunk cat, Alucard stares at the linen-clad back of Sypha. She sits up, chin resting upon her hand as she watches with contemplation at the snowy outside from the comfort of their bed. Alucard’s first words of the day come out as a pleasant groan.

“What are you doing awake?”

Sypha looks at him over her shoulder. She sees his lazy smile and gives one of her own in return. “There is a lot of snow outside.”

“So there is. All the more reason to stay where it is warm.” His fingertips trail over the small of her back as he nestles under the blanket. Sypha won’t join him just yet.

“I’m worried about the Hold.”

“What about it?” Alucard mumbles into his pillow.

“What if some managed to get down there? What if it’s too cold for the books?”

There she goes, always considering every logistic when it comes to repositories of knowledge. Knowing Sypha, this attention to detail usually leads her to overthink. Alucard reaches for her arm and tries to sooth her worries.

“If it so concerns you, we can make certain those precious tomes are safe.”

An idea comes to Sypha, wiping the grim expression off her face. So quick she is to change moods, especially when she knows that things will be alright. “Can we make snow castles?”

Alucard responds with an amused snort. “Is that not what children do?”

Sypha’s lips tighten and purse into the least intimidating, least impactful pout. As punishment for his light mockery, she pins Alucard’s body down with her own, the tips of their noses brushing against each other like courting animals. Straddling his waist, her long nightgown bunches up and exposes her scarred, chilled thighs while she leans forward. “Well, perhaps we should all be children at heart.”

“If that is what you wish, then I suppose we could carve out some time in the day for a little frivolity.”

“And winter berry picking?”

“Of course.” The thought itself hardly occurred to Alucard. Whatever will fill out this cold, cold day. It might also give him something to calm his little fairy friend, now a solid member of their odd family unit no matter how much she torments Trevor with her daily tricks.

The weight of Sypha atop his chest lightens as she sits up. “I’m hungry. I will go make breakfast.”

“Let me help.”

“No, no. No need to remove yourself. I know my way around that oversized pantry.”

Alucard grabs Sypha’s wrist before she can leave, staring at her with a dire look in his intense eyes. His tone is low and serious. “Sypha. Let me help.”

Confused at first, perhaps even a bit worried, until she realizes the sort of game he’s playing. She’s fully capable of making food for the other three castle occupants—depending on the stars, planetary alignments, and exact rotation of the moon that is. Reverting back to her annoyed stance, Sypha places her palm on Alucard’s forehead and lightly pushes him onto the pillow.

“How dare you doubt my cooking abilities. You should expect an extra helping of salt in your breakfast today.”

She’s gone too far. As retaliation for her transgression, Alucard pulls her in close, eliciting a surprised squeak from Sypha. He smirks and opens wide, licking the tips of his fangs in an exaggerated manner.

“I would prefer to have you for breakfast.”

Sypha’s lips and tongue begin to form a vaguely quizzical sound but it’s too late. Alucard’s own mouth ravishes her unguarded neck. Every ticklish spot he can find, leaving behind the softest nips and playful butterfly pecks. She fidgets in his arms, every noise a combination of laughter and the words “what has gotten into you this morning?” Sypha manages to escape the beasts’ clutches though it took very little effort on her part. And not before she holds Alucard’s face in both hands, planting a deep, long kiss that leaves him short of breath.

“Bitter tea for you, then. Maybe that will calm you down.”

Alucard sighs, lovesick with a ticklish warmth stirring in his belly, and watches Sypha tiptoe her bare feet across the cold floor then out the door. A third voice clears its throat right beside him. Turning onto his side, Alucard stares into the deliriously tired but stupidly happy face of Trevor. 

“Don’t I get a good morning kiss too?”

“How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough to watch you two have all the fun without me.”

Little shit. Though Alucard has no right to say much on that matter, not after his own morning game with Sypha. Willing to oblige Trevor’s request, he crawls atop the hunter’s broad chest, fingertips weaving themselves throughout the strings of his nightgown collar and leans forward. Trevor prepares to be doted upon, a prince waiting for much deserved affection—until Alucard’s palm presses against his lips.

“Your morning breath is terrible.”

They playfully wrestle, limbs tangled without any show of their real strength, before Alucard gives in and grants Trevor permission to kiss him as much as he pleases. He collapses onto the other man’s chest while they enjoy the warmth offered by both bodies. The bed helps as blankets and sheets lay about messily, creating a nest of comfort. Trevor takes to laxly brushing his hand through Alucard’s hair. So soft, he can never stop himself. They’ve worked hard for this intimacy and will greatly savour it.

“I had a dream,” Alucard mutters into Trevor’s breast.

“Did you now.” There’s a caution to his response. Dreams are not to be taken lightly in this castle hold. “What happened?”

“I was a doll.”

“Again? I thought you were done with that.”

“A restless psyche is a tricky thing to understand. Mine especially.” Alucard decides he doesn’t feel like delving any further than that cryptid explanation. Self-preservation instinct, or something similar. He hopes Trevor won’t worry too much. “You and Sypha were there too, in more ways than one.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I found you as the same dolls I created, but then you revealed yourselves as other objects. First Sypha then you.”

“What sort of objects?”

“A metal wind-up bird with a real bird hidden inside and a snaggletoothed wildcat that had been stuffed and mounted.”

“I don’t have a snaggletooth.”

Trevor’s words can often be taken at face value while other times they require a bit more deciphering. Alucard can’t exactly tell whether it’s a mere joke or if he should be clearer with his recounting of an admittedly surreal inner experience. “I know it sounds strange to someone who didn’t see it themselves.”

“Were you hurting in this dream?”

“... No. Now most of the finer details are slipping away.”

He feels Trevor plant a firm kiss atop his head. “That’s what usually happens in the morning once a dream ends.”

The cheerful, air light voice of Sypha entering the room interrupts their small discussion about memory and dreams. Like performing a deft balancing act, she carries three dishes of slightly burnt buttered bread along with three steaming cups. “Breakfast! Coffee for you, Trevor… with something added. Tea for myself and Alucard.”

“You are a sainted woman.” Trevor sighs deeply as he and Alucard grab their cups, warming their hands.

“You didn’t actually make mine bitter, did you?”

“Drowned it with sweet honey, just as you prefer.”

Alucard smiles. “Bless your heart.”

Still in their nightgowns, looking like happy ghosts, all three sit on the disheveled bed, eating slices of bread and gingerly sipping their hot drinks. “What were you two talking about before I returned?”

“Just a dream Alucard had,” Trevor says as he downs a mouthful of bread with scalding Turkish coffee. Sypha’s interest—and concern—suddenly peaks.

“Just a dream. What sort?”

“The sort which fades when my eyes open. I assure you this one was harmless. Nothing to be alarmed about. After all, I am still allowed to have dreams.”

Sypha looks down into her half full cup of tea, watching the tiny ripples every time she moves it a slight inch. “I know that. We both do. We just—”

Alucard quickly eases Sypha’s worries by caressing her cheek with his thumb. “That summer is long past. We never have to repeat it.”

She wonders how he can be so certain, so confident in light outweighing the dark, yet all the same it gives her hope to hear it come from him of all people. “You were able to get Trevor into one of your frilly little nightgowns. I suppose that means anything is possible.”

“I didn’t have to do or say anything. He chose to wear it out of his own volition.”

“Even so, it never seems to suit him, does it?”

Alucard nods as he clears everyone’s empty plate off the bed, wiping the sheets clean of stray crumbs. Trevor looks at both of them with an expression that suggests they might have wounded his pride. Gossiping about someone while they remain in the same room is one sin; sharing the same bed is another matter entirely.

“Pricks. At least it keeps me warm at night.”

“You have Sypha and me to do that already.”

“What are you suggesting? That I take it off? I’ll freeze to death.”

“Dramatic as always.” Working together before another half-hearted whine drops out of his open mouth, they slip the nightgown over Trevor’s head and throw it to the floor.

“Pot calling the kettle black, cockhead prince.”

Not the best choice of words, especially when Alucard has the perfect retaliation. Sypha watches in amusement, making herself comfortable while her two men who act more like boys tussle until one gains the upper hand over the other by straddling his hips. Her favourite strategy when push comes to shove in the bed. Trevor, however, sees it as his own ideal opportunity.

“Alright. It’s off. Now could you lift up yours?”

Alucard cocks an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I just need to check something. It won’t take long, I swear.”

He doesn’t notice any glint of mischief in Trevor’s eyes; either he’s gotten very good at hiding it, or he’s telling the truth (part of it at least). Despite this lingering doubt, Alucard slowly raises the trim of his nightgown, exposing his stomach. Trevor sits up, running a hand over his bare skin. Over the scars. A sudden flinch here and there, but Alucard doesn’t pull back. Not after how far he’s come. 

He bites his bottom lip, unable to hold back a pleased giggle as fingertip caresses turn into soft kisses, tracing an erratic path along his abdomen. Two more arms embrace him from behind. Sypha nuzzles her face into the crook of Alucard’s neck. Soft, slow, enough to lull him back into the pleasures of sleep while being held. While being loved without fear or shame.

Alucard’s happy daze is broken by something wet, loud, and ticklish pushing against his stomach. Just as it stops, he’s given another one. Although in the throes of shock, Alucard immediately recognizes what Trevor is doing to him with his mouth. His mother called them “raspberries”. 

How could he let this happen? The son of Dracula, the half-vampire prince, defeated by a ridiculous expression of affection. Unable to compose himself or resist the urge, Alucard collapses onto the pillows in a ticklish fit, hollering with laughter while Trevor makes excuses. Couldn’t help himself.

Not everyone is happy and not everyone laughs. There’s a fourth body in the bedroom, a smaller one who has miraculously kept silent during this entire frivolity, holding herself back. Alucard found it necessary to give his fairy a proper name. Now Alyce lies curled in on herself within the safe confines of her music box. Sticking her fingertips into the very centre of her delicate sound sensitive eardrums.

Since that summer of pain, darkness, and healing, she’s heard it all. Every kiss, every contact of lips upon skin, and every loving proclamation said with such sickening sweetness; the kind that only humans are capable of. She’s happy for Alucard. Happy that his dreams no longer send her into tearful fits. Relieved of how a certain light has slowly returned to his eyes. But must he act this way around those other two giants right in her vicinity? It nearly makes her pine for the days when she had him all to herself.

Alyce can take no more. Yes, they should leave their bed and greet the outside. The day despite its coldness is too bright to let it slip past them. She pulls with all her might at the hairs of both Trevor and Sypha before barraging her master with incessant jingles. Alucard understands, well versed in her particular method of communication. It helps that he’s able to calm Alyce by offering to take her with them while they forage for winter berries. Some fairies are won over by flowers, others by shining trinkets. The way to this one’s heart seems to be music and food.

With bellies fed and blood running, the three dress themselves in the warmest furs before leaving the castle. The manor sits off in the near distance, a mound of snow and stone that’s been slowly repaired over the past months. Alyce sits atop Alucard’s shoulder, eager to fly off into the forest and ransack the bushes herself. He and Trevor walk down the front steps without a second thought. 

Sypha envies them but they couldn’t have forgotten so easily. Her pace slows almost to a stop as she passes over a certain spot close to the castle entrance. The reddened dirt is now covered with untouched snow. A sharp feeling stings the bottom of her stomach, plunging into her like a fire hot needle.

She catches up to Trevor and Alucard, squeezing herself between them while linking arms with both. Keeping them close as if she’s afraid to lose them in the depths of winter. Hopefully when the world melts and green returns to their home, the red dirt in front of the castle will also be washed away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> decided to add an extra winter-themed special chapter because i love this story so much and i'm not ready to let it go just yet ;3;


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